


Don't Look Back

by Onyx_and_Elm



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blood Play, Character Death, Consensual Non-Consent, Consensual Underage Sex, Creature Fic, Curiosity killed the cat, Dark, Dark Hermione Granger, Dominant Hermione, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gore, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Loss of Virginity, Mating Rituals, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mind Games, Moral Ambiguity, POV Hermione Granger, Secret Relationship, Shrieking Shack, Underage - Freeform, Violence, Voyeurism, Werewolf Draco Malfoy, drugs as foreplay, hermione granger is going to do so much out of character shit just prepare yourself ok?, jekyll and hyde vibes, seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:34:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 67,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26453452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onyx_and_Elm/pseuds/Onyx_and_Elm
Summary: It’s the smell of it. Chemical. Bitter and sharp as a raw edge on metal. Just a hint of it as she passes him at breakfast — but enough to stop her dead, mid-step.There is Wolfsbane in his tea.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 2099
Kudos: 5700
Collections: DM & HG, Dramione, Dramione Fics That Live In My Head Rent Free, Dramione Works, Got me in my feelings <3, chapter updates on these WIPs are why I breathe air, hp fics i could read endlessly





	1. Bitterness / Bruises

What should’ve been evident from the first day of term — from the moment Draco Malfoy appeared in the Great Hall, late for the Feast and visibly disheveled — actually takes her more than a month to riddle out. 

There was a wildness in his eyes when he sat down to dinner that night, flaring up at the sight of Harry and the freshly broken nose he’d given him. Hermione might’ve noticed if she were accustomed to paying him any attention at all.

As it is, she’s not. And it’s only Harry’s dogged obsession with him over the following weeks that gets her to blink and pull Malfoy into focus.

Something is _very_ wrong. 

“What’s wrong is he’s a Death Eater,” Harry says, more than once. Adamant. “He’s one of them.”

But it’s more than that. She’s sure of it. 

Certainly, he’s more withdrawn. Always leaving meals early. Skipping classes once or twice a week. But Harry has no proof beyond what they saw at Borgin and Burkes. No Dark Mark to solidify his suspicions. Malfoy’s sleeves are never rolled up. 

His wrists, however — they tell another story entirely. 

Hermione catches a glimpse one morning in potions. They’re brewing the Draught of Living Death. Attempting to, anyhow. And Malfoy has always been better at cutting his herbs than she is, though she’d never admit it out loud. She glances his way to see how he’s slicing the Valerian Sprigs and instead finds her gaze drawn to bruises.

Dark and mottled smears of violet and blue, splashed upon his wrists like he’s dipped them in spoiled wine. They stop just above his pulse point. A sharp cut off. She takes one look and thinks — _Lucius._

Harry’s not really listening when she tells him this theory; he and Ron are distracted by his prize — Liquid Luck. How he’s managed to lunge from the bottom third of their Potions class to Slughorn’s star pupil, she has no idea.

It doesn’t matter anyhow. Her theory proves incorrect less than two weeks later. Malfoy raises a hand in class and the bruises are fresh, color ripe as a plum. They’re more than a month into term. Lucius can’t have done it.

She considers self-harm, for a short while. But it seems an ill-fit for Malfoy. 

And in the end, the answer presents itself by pure coincidence, on a Friday in October.

It’s the smell of it. Chemical. Bitter and sharp as a raw edge on metal. Just a hint of it as she passes him at breakfast — but enough to stop her dead, mid-step. 

There is Wolfsbane in his tea. 

Hermione does her best to recover herself quickly, the scuff of her shoes on the flagstone apparently not enough to rouse much attention. She manages to make her way to the Gryffindor table and tuck herself in beside Neville, but her eyes are unfocused as she spreads marmalade onto her toast. 

The scent of aconite is so distinctive — she’s certain she can’t have mistaken it. But to take it in _tea_. She’s never heard of such a thing, and even for Malfoy it seems like an awfully bold choice. How does he expect to keep it from the other Slytherins? Certainly, some of them will notice —

She gives herself a small shake, realizing she’s been scraping a dry knife across the worn-down slice for far too long. How is it _this_ that she’s wondering? Of all things? Of all the other connotations that come with adding Wolfsbane to a cup of Earl Grey like it’s cream?

Malfoy is a werewolf. That’s the gist of it. 

Taking mercy on the toast, she sets it back on the corner of her plate and clears her throat, running a hand through her curls with what she hopes is some measure of subtlety in order to clear her view of him. 

If she wasn’t sure before, she certainly is now as she watches him drink it. 

Earl Grey doesn’t typically make one’s face scrunch up that way. Malfoy looks like he’s drinking paint thinner, sharp jaw working overtime just to manage each swallow. 

How long has he been like this? She thinks it can’t have been going on for more than a few months — wants to believe she would’ve certainly noticed otherwise. Lycanthropy wears on the skin and bones, often visibly affecting one’s appearance. Lupin, for instance. While his condition might not have been immediately clear to the naked eye, he had a frailty about him. A look of illness and exhaustion.

Malfoy’s clearly not far enough in to be wearing such side effects—

A hand waves in front of her face. Ron. She leans back quickly and diverts her attention to her water goblet. 

“Yes?”

“Said we’re going to Hagrid’s after classes. Are you coming, or do you—”

“I have a paper to write.” 

Ron nods like he heard the words in his head before she said them, but she bites down on the lick of anger she feels because he follows it up with that sweet, disarming smile of his. “I swear, Hermione — one of these days, those books are going to swallow you whole.”

“At least then I’ll be surrounded by big words.”

Seamus guffaws at that, jabbing Ron in the side with an elbow, but Hermione takes care to smile back at him when she sees the blush fan out across his face. 

As it is, she doesn’t have a paper to write; she finished it last night. She’s not even sure why she said it, and it takes the rest of the day and several classes spent only half-focused to realize what she’s carving out the time for. 

But then Malfoy stands up from his usual seat in front of her in Charms as the class ends, and she catches herself tracking his movements — watching the subtle shift in his weight as he reaches the door to determine whether he’ll turn left or right. She herself waits until Harry and Ron have left, taking her time sliding her books back into her bag. 

And then — when she’s sure no one’s watching — she follows him.

* * *

  
This goes on for two weeks. 

Hermione manages to keep a modicum of control over herself and only follows him on certain days of the week. Only when they share a final class of the day. She doesn’t do much other than observe, the way Harry’s been — although for an entirely different reason. She studies where he goes, often finding he secludes himself in an alcove somewhere to read. She’s curious what he’s reading.

She’s curious why Crabbe and Goyle no longer follow him around.

More than anything, she tells herself she’s watching for some sort of change in behavior. She keeps track of the moon’s phases, taking note of the way his coloring seems to grow paler the more it waxes, eyes becoming sunken and shadowed. His gait shifts to something tense and slow, almost defensive, as the full moon draws near. His hair grows more unkempt. She watches and takes note of all of this for reasons she’s not quite certain of, and all the while she tries to convince herself she’s not being obsessive. 

She thinks she’s getting away with it, too. Always so careful to duck back behind whichever pillar she’s tucked against when she thinks he’s about to glance in her direction. 

But there’s something she doesn’t account for. Something she should’ve considered early on.

And on the evening before the full moon — a Thursday — as she’s tailing him at what she thinks is a reasonable distance on his way back to the Dungeons, he rounds a corner and she loses sight of him for half a second. Casually, she turns that same corner — and abruptly finds a wand in her face.

 _“Granger,”_ Malfoy spits, voice bleeding with frustration and malice. “What are you playing at?”

She takes a measured step back, trying to calm her racing pulse and gather her senses — trying to put a few more inches between the dark tip of his wand and the skin of her throat. 

“Malfoy,” she replies when she can manage it. Makes her best effort to sound confused and even a bit affronted. “You’d do well to lower your wand.” 

He does no such thing. He fills that space she made between them and actively digs the tip of it into her flesh. “Why are you _crowding_ me?” 

“I have no idea what you’re—”

“Don’t play dumb,” he seethes, shifting his stance so she’s forced to back against the wall. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Malfoy, I don’t—”

“I can _smell_ you,” he growls, and that shuts her mouth in an instant.

Because of course he can. For the sole reason she’s been analyzing him so closely. And she realizes how stupid she is not to’ve considered it.

They stare at one another in the harsh silence, his eyes boring into hers. A strange, clinical side of her is thrilled at the opportunity to study them up close, despite the precariousness of the situation. What she can see of his irises are dark rimmed and tinged with spots of black, like ink has splattered across their usual faded grey, but his pupils are enormous. So enlarged they block the majority of his irises out. Deep red stains the sunken flesh of his lower lids, as though brought on by severe exhaustion. It’s the look in his eyes above all, though — deadly.

It reminds her to speak.

“What do you m—”

He cuts her off again, “You’re still playing dumb. It doesn’t suit you.” He presses his wand in a little harder for emphasis. “I know you know.”

It takes a great deal of restraint not to spit out the word _‘what?’_

The viciousness in Malfoy’s gaze warns her not to. 

So instead she asks, “How?” 

He sneers at her, upper lip curling. “What, did Potter train you in the art of subtlety, Granger? The both of you are rotten at it. It’s been obvious for weeks. Would’ve been even if you weren’t stalking me—”

“I am not _stalking_ you,” she splutters, finding her sense all at once and screwing up the courage to shove him back with both hands. Her throat aches where his wand was, and she rubs at it defensively, stepping aside to put a couple more feet between them.

“No? What would you call it, then?” He jolts up his eyebrows. “Following me from classes? Shadowing my every move? Prying into my affairs like a—”

“Does Dumbledore know?” she blurts out, if only to stop him from saying whatever horrible word he had poised on his tongue. 

Malfoy falters at the question, expression in his eyes flickering — a little surprised. 

“Of course he knows,” he says a moment later, dismissive. The sneer makes its way back onto his face. “What do you care?”

She starts to twist the strap of her book bag around her fingers, if only to give them something to do. She hardly notices she’s cutting off her circulation. “I suppose I’m just curious.”

Malfoy stares at her for an extended second, gaze flat. “Don’t be,” is his response — just a hiss of breath. 

She shakes her head, and the words are instinctive. “That’s not how curiosity works.”

Malfoy steps back. Scoffs and rearranges his bag on his shoulder. “I’m not one of your fucking books, Granger.” He slides his wand back into his pocket, and she only realizes then — as her shoulders finally drop — how tense she’s been at the sight of it. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have something important to brew.”

She knows it’s not a figure of speech — just as she knows exactly what it is he’s referring to. She’s never seen it successfully brewed before. She has the recipe committed to memory, having studied it and its ingredients a hundred times over. She even attempted it herself once, obtaining disastrous results. Wolfsbane is an inordinately challenging potion.

And the words are out before she can stop them, halting Malfoy in his tracks halfway down the Dungeons staircase. 

“Can I — would you…would you let me watch?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cracks knuckles* Who's ready for another ride? ;)
> 
> Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0qEW5Eu2D4GyMigMSn87Bz?si=wWr6pOqISomRb_X2OZLc5w
> 
> Fic Trailer: https://youtu.be/-aOZU9dMJhk


	2. Exhales / Answers

He is meticulous. 

Every slice of his knife across the cutting board is quick and deliberate; every ingredient enters the cauldron from an immaculate, practiced distance. His elbows never deviate from their careful angle at his sides, and she doesn’t think he blinks even once as he measures out the liquids.

Obsessive might be a better word for it, but perhaps there’s no other way to be when it comes to a potion like this. 

She sits silently on one of the Potions Classroom’s stools, at least a table’s length away from him. When she first followed him in, she tried to take the seat directly on his left — but the look he gave her at that was sharp and arrogant and absolutely without compromise. 

So she moved. Albeit reluctantly, and not without throwing her best glare back at him first. She might’ve refused if she weren’t so bloody curious. 

As it is, she has no idea why he allowed her to follow him in the first place. 

She’d been almost certain in the moments after the words tumbled out of her mouth that he’d sneer. Curl his lip up. Mock her. Hex her, even. She had locked her limbs and stared him down, bracing for it. 

And yet, miraculously, something else had happened. 

His dark blond brows had danced across his forehead for a moment, up and down in short intervals — confused and suspicious and even a little caught off guard. She could see him actively fighting his standard response to her. Could see him physically swallow back something vicious he might’ve thought up instinctively. And even he didn’t seem sure why he was resisting. 

Then his eyes had grown shadowed, seeping further into confusion, and in a voice that seemed tense and unsure he’d said, “Do what you want.”

The whole situation is inexplicable. Fascinating. And whatever the reason, she refuses to do anything to jeopardize it. Apparently, that now includes breathing. 

“Do you have to exhale like that?” 

Her chin slides off its perch on her knuckles, startled by his voice. “What?”

He doesn’t look up from the flask of boiled sheep’s blood he’s leveling out, even as he releases a high-pitched, greatly exaggerated sigh. “Like that,” he says. “Every fucking time.”

“I don’t do that,” she insists, sitting up a little straighter.

“Don’t you, though?”

“Absolutely not.”

But she loses her train of thought, any further indignation sliding back off her tongue and down her throat as Malfoy starts to tip the aconite out of a small obsidian jar. Spreads it slowly — so carefully — out across the cutting board. 

This is the part she mangled on her own. 

“Oh,” she whispers aloud by accident, watching him slide his fingers one by one into a pair of black dragon-hide gloves. 

“Touch it with your bare hands, did you?” he asks in a superior tone. She never told him she attempted it before. But that’s not the question he’s asking, and she wonders how it’s so painfully obvious that she can’t handle failure. 

Chewing on the inside of her lip, she admits, “I…may have. Only a little. I tried to be cautious.” 

Malfoy scoffs and rolls his eyes, starting to sharpen a different knife — this one smaller and more lethal in its curve. “Probably contaminated the lot.” He runs his gloved fingers delicately across the bright purple flowers, spreading them out. “Aconite is very temperamental. The slightest touch of human skin can spoil it. It refuses to grow in sunlight. It poisons other plants that grow near it. And it doesn’t keep. Has to be harvested fresh for every brew.”

She glances up when she feels his gaze on her, and she’s not sure if he realizes he’s gesturing with the knife.

“Was yours fresh, Granger? Did you learn how to grow it yourself? Coax it to thrive in your care — a plant that dies if the temperature changes even half a degree beyond its liking?”

It’s an insult, the way he asks it. 

She stiffens and tilts up her chin, but Malfoy speaks over her when she opens her mouth.

“For a girl so self-righteous about her studies, one would think you’d have tried a little harder.”

“I’d at least know not to take it in tea.”

He huffs again, derisive, as he looks back to the cutting board. “You don’t know anything.” But the bite of his words is somewhat subdued by the distracting motions of his hands. Even as he says, “It’s quite clear you have no idea what you’re talking about,” she finds she’s too enamored with the way he draws the blade through the stems — a smooth cut across, wrist loose and relaxed. He glides the knife like a paintbrush over canvas. 

The flowers start to bleed, cleaved in two. Hermione watches transfixed as he takes each petal and stem in gentle hands, dipping them about half an inch into the potion and holding them there a moment before he lets them sink to the bottom. 

“Why do you do it like that?” she asks without thinking. 

“So it doesn’t accumulate at the bottom.” He says it like it’s obvious. 

“Why not just stir it?”

Another sharp glance in her direction. “I’m curious how much you actually studied before you attempted it.” 

She bristles, sitting up straight again. She studied quite a bit, as it happens. It was Fourth Year, and the school’s preoccupation with the Tournament had given her quite a bit of free time and privacy. She certainly didn’t enter into the experiment blind; she read every entry on Wolfsbane available in the Hogwarts Library, except for—

“I didn’t have access to the Restricted Section.” 

Malfoy sweeps a hand through the air — a sort of _'there you have it.’_ But when he doesn’t elaborate, she’s forced to ask him. It’s an unpleasant thing — asking Malfoy questions. Makes her feel remarkably vulnerable and exposed. 

“Why? What did I miss?”

He makes a sound like a laugh in the back of his throat. “Quite a bit, clearly.” He tugs off his gloves and promptly sets them ablaze with his wand — an action so startling, she nearly falls off her stool. But Malfoy’s tone is still calm as ever as he sweeps up the ashes and vanishes them with a flourish. “You don’t _stir_ Wolfsbane. Never. Once the aconite is added, it’s to be left alone for as long as it needs.”

In tandem with his words, he steps away from the cauldron and leans back against the stone wall, folding his arms. 

“As long as it needs to what?” 

“To settle. Acclimate.”

“And…how long does that take?”

He bobs a shoulder, tired eyes half-lidded and bored. “Sometimes hours. Sometimes minutes. It depends.” His sleeve rides up his arm when he lifts it to massage the back of his neck, and she finds her eyes drawn to the movement unexpectedly. Those bruises are still there — faded and yellowing — but that’s not what holds her focus. It’s the texture of his skin. The smooth, pale expanse of that forearm, now lined with foreign muscle. Corded. Tense. Different than she remembers. 

Malfoy is much changed. 

She doesn’t know how long she stares. Doesn’t know how long he pretends not to notice. It’s nearly impossible to pull her gaze away, and it takes a sudden hiss from the cauldron to help her along. 

Malfoy lurches back off the wall as the potion starts to bubble and writhe, pure white steam rising from its surface. It smells of salt and earth and something sour she can’t quite place. 

“Quick today,” Malfoy muses, taking out his wand.

“It’s finished?”

“Mm.” And as he charms a portion of it — less than an eighth of the cauldron’s contents, if she had to guess — sending an arc of glittering silver liquid gliding through the air, he seems to forget his commitment to being unpleasant. “You can tell from the color,” he says, guiding the potion into an unstoppered flask in his other hand. His tone is educational. Mild. “It should have a sheen to it. And it should smell—” He stops and gestures to her with his wand, waving her over. “Well, come here. Smell it.”

She’s shocked at the invitation. Does her best to hide it as she meanders over to where she wasn’t allowed to sit before. 

Malfoy holds out the flask to her, and cautiously she dips her head to take a whiff. It takes a lot of effort not to cough. Up close, the Wolfsbane’s scent is noxious — smoky and chemical and entirely too much. Too sweet. Too bitter. Too soft and too sharp. Too _everything._

Malfoy must see her struggling. He hums — a low, vibrating sound. “And that’s why I take it in tea, Granger.”

She glances up, still halfway bent over, looking at him through the shadow of her lashes.

“Oh,” she says like she did before, and she’s not certain in that moment if it’s a reply or a reaction. A subconscious response to the look in his eyes, suddenly dark and disoriented. She can actually see his pupils expand — just a fraction wider. 

She doesn’t have the chance to riddle it out. Only a few seconds later, he seems to come to his senses. 

He jerks the flask away from her, and all at once their impromptu lesson is over. 

* * *

_Who?_

It’s the question that swims laps in the shallows of her mind for days after the brew. 

_Who bit him?_

The transformation had to have happened over the Summer holiday. Malfoy wasn’t like this in Fifth Year. She likes to believe she would’ve noticed instantly. 

Perhaps, with Lucius locked away, he became more exposed to the wrong sorts of people. 

Though, in truth, Malfoy’s always been exposed to the wrong sorts of people.

She watches him closely in the days that follow the full moon — it’s easier now that she doesn’t have to hide it from him. He sees her eyes on him, and the crease of his forehead tells her he resents it. But there isn’t exactly anything he can do to stop her. They both know that.

Dumbledore must’ve given him access to the Shrieking Shack, just like Lupin. She figures it’s the only way his fellow Slytherins haven’t noticed. Though they must’ve noticed _something_. Must think he’s sick, or perhaps depressed, what with his face so bloodless and his eyes so glazed.

Either way, from what she’s seen, none of them really appear to care.

Since she confronted him, he’s been more careful to keep his sleeves buttoned at the wrists, but Hermione feels certain those bruises are fresh again. It’s an odd secret to know. That once a month the arrogant, sophisticated, Pureblood boy who sits in front of her in Charms has to chain himself up to a wall somewhere. She assumes that’s what happens, anyhow.

And yet her curiosity is far from sated. She’s not satisfied. Wants to know more. Learn more. See and hear more. Peel back the layers.

She does it more than once.

When the opportunity presents itself during class, if she has to stand near him — pass by him to fetch ingredients or wait behind him in a line to perform spells — she’s unable to resist.

“Does it hurt?” she asks the first time, strangely pleased at the way he goes stiff. 

For a long while, he lets her think he’s not going to answer — he pauses like this every time she asks from then on — but then eventually he says, “Yes,” in a quiet voice, not moving his lips. 

It goes on from there. Any chance she gets.

“Do you always transform?”

“No.”

“Do you remember what happens?”

“Sometimes.”

“Have you ever killed anything?”

“Yes.”

“Any _one?”_

“No.”

“Does your family know?”

“No.”

That one surprises her quite a bit — answered as she passes him in a corridor — but before she can follow it up, he’s gone. 

“Does the Wolfsbane always work?”

“No.”

“Do you ever get injured?”

“Yes.”

“Who bit you?”

This — _this_ question. Of all of them, it’s the first one he doesn’t answer. The one that makes him turn around in his seat and face her, in the middle of a class, and tighten his eyes. No response. No angry words. Just that _look._

“What?” she asks quietly, bewildered by the fury in his eyes and hoping Dean doesn’t notice sitting next to her. 

Malfoy only turns back around to face the front, and after that he stops answering questions altogether. 

So she stops asking.

But instead of letting it go, the way she knows she should, she finds herself _telling_ him things instead. Strange, concerning, altogether unimaginable things. Things like —

“I can talk to Professor Lupin.”

Things like —

“I can brew the Wolfsbane for you.”

Things like —

“I can help you.” 

With these, it doesn’t seem like he chooses not to answer. It seems like he doesn’t know how. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0qEW5Eu2D4GyMigMSn87Bz?si=Wd8nQvt2SIGgd2FR4T63OQ


	3. Paper Cuts / Paramours

Harry becomes a problem.

His certainty of Malfoy’s seduction to the Dark Arts metastasizes like an infection, and he’s suddenly _always there_ when Hermione goes looking for him.

It never remotely occurs to her that her own motivations have begun to sway out of the range of normalcy. It never occurs to her to question her sudden interest in the slightest. But Harry’s is clearly misguided.

Malfoy, for his part, begins to behave as though he’s been corralled into an impossibly tight corner. Even when he’s not being watched, he acts like he’s being watched — but then again, she is always watching. She finds him constantly looking over his shoulder. Constantly pausing in his step before he rounds a corner. The double dose of attention is so obviously wearing on him, and yet she can’t seem to find it in herself to back away.

With Lupin, the barrier of the word _‘Professor’_ stood between her and everything she wanted to ask in Third Year. Everything she wanted to know. Certainly, she could write to him with questions. She plans to do that even now. But she could never observe. She could never pry, the way she so desperately wants to. 

With Malfoy, the playing field is level — the only barrier a sort of stale, mutual distaste. And furthermore, in the face of all her poking and prodding and all her questions, he’s yet to tell her _‘no._ ’ At least not a real _‘no.’_ A hard _‘no.’_ The sort of _‘no’_ she’s been expecting ever since she followed him into the Potions Classroom. 

But Harry — it’s entirely possible he could mess everything up. Even when she’s not completely sure what this _everything_ in question is. She can’t follow Malfoy when he follows Malfoy, and she becomes increasingly irritated by his obvious and flat-footed approach to stalking. Harry doesn’t follow from a casual distance whenever Malfoy leaves the Great Hall early from dinner, or when he slips out of a class the moment they’re dismissed. He sort of charges after him with this intent and purpose in his stride, as though he’s clearly doing the right thing. As though he’s certain at any moment he’ll discover Malfoy in some broom cupboard, busy draining the blood of an innocent.

Blood. That’s an interesting thought. 

She keeps picturing it all over Malfoy’s hands, a stark contrast to his pale skin, even after he told her he’s never killed anyone. She pictures it dripping down his chin. Staining torn shirtsleeves. Pooling on the ground. And the effect the mental image has on her is altogether unexpected. 

Malfoy is not… _unattractive._ Though, she finds it difficult to put it any other way. He’s hardly her type, all pointy and sharp at every edge, with his stiff posture and his upturned nose and that constant look of disgust in his eyes. This, notwithstanding his _behavior._

No, she finds she’s never even liked blonds. 

Someone like Ron, though — it makes her sigh just to think of it. Looking at Ron is like slipping into a bath, what with his delicate smattering of freckles and his gentle, sleepy eyes and all the color and warmth that comes with him. There is something infinitely more pleasant about looking at Ron than there is about looking at Malfoy. Malfoy, who can make you feel as though an ice shard has sliced its way through your stomach with a glance.

And yet thinking of Malfoy, even covered in blood — why in god’s name can’t she stop picturing all the blood? — is somehow disarming. There’s a vulnerability to it. A certain helplessness and a lack of control that she’s finding it hard not to think about. She wants to see that look on him. Malfoy — at nature’s mercy. Part of it would be gratifying. Validating, after all of his torments these many years.

But it’s true, there’s also a large side of her that desperately wants to help.

And why on _Earth_ does she want to help? Why on _Earth_ has she already _offered?_

Why — dear god, _why_ — why hasn’t he said _no?_

* * *

Things stop making sense altogether about halfway through October.

The next full moon is only a week away, and she’s been wondering for days how to approach him — because it’s one thing to ask him to show her how he brews the Wolfsbane. It’s another thing entirely to ask him to let her watch _again_. It already took an obscene amount of courage to offer to help him brew it, and considering his lack of response, she’s certain the answer is no.

But if he let her watch once, why not twice?

She’s driving herself mad trying to decide how to word the question when it happens. They’re brewing Sleeping Draught in Potions today — relatively simple and perhaps part of the reason she’s allowing her mind to wander. In her distraction, her hand slips over the edge of the cauldron as she’s adding the lavender, and scalding, half-brewed Draught scorches the sensitive flesh of her inner wrist. 

With a gasp and a little shriek, she stumbles back, shaking it out and clutching at the abused flesh. Slughorn immediately meanders over to help, prattling on about _‘focus,’_ and _‘no harm done, really,’_ as he performs a cooling charm, but Slughorn holds none of Hermione’s attention.

She’s certain she saw it. Maybe a few seconds after the pain sent the breath hissing out through her teeth, Malfoy — the very object of her distraction — had made a similar sound from across the classroom. Quieter than hers, almost so quiet she’s not sure how she heard it. But she _definitely_ saw it. Saw him drop the long-stemmed spoon he’d been stirring with and yank down his sleeve. Saw him clutch his wrist and massage the pad of his thumb into it, brows drawn together. Confused. Startled. 

Zabini had noticed too, nudging him and asking something inaudible. Malfoy just shook his head, face still tight and creased — but then he’d turned a fraction and caught her gaze, and there was something in that look that told her this wasn’t a coincidence.

They’re still staring at each other now, even as Slughorn gives Hermione a good-natured shove towards her cauldron. 

“Back to it, Granger. No sleeping on the brew!”

“Yes, Professor. Thank you,” she murmurs quietly, almost dazed. 

Malfoy raises an eyebrow when she doesn’t look away first — and there’s no attitude behind it. It’s not a challenge, it’s a question.

 _What just happened?_ That’s what his expression seems to say.

She doesn’t have an answer. She clears her throat and glances back down at the Sleeping Draught, still an echo of that sting throbbing in her wrist. She has no explanation for it — no valid excuse to gloss over Malfoy experiencing the exact same sensation in the exact same moment from across the room. 

But what is she if not scientific? 

And there’s only one way to weed out the possibility of a coincidence. 

Shortly before the end of the lesson, as everyone packs up their books, Hermione allows her eyes to settle on Malfoy again. He’s busily adjusting the strap on his bag, nodding at something Parkinson is saying, and as she watches, Hermione allows the tip of her finger to graze the corner of a page in _Advanced Potion Making._ The slice is quick and clinical — only a mild paper cut. 

And yet, lo and behold, Malfoy gives a little jerk of surprise, hand faltering around that leather strap. Instinctively, he lifts his finger — the same finger she’s just cut — and puts it in his mouth, sucking away blood she has a gut feeling isn’t there.

He seems to realize this a moment later too, when he doesn’t taste it — when his eyes snap to hers, that finger still poised between his lips. Those lips part a little wider when she holds up her own finger so he can see, allowing a small trickle of warm blood to glide down it towards her palm.

She’s not sure what the look on her face is — what he sees in her expression — but she’s never seen Malfoy leave a room so fast. Harry is after him in an instant, no doubt expecting to catch him committing cold-blooded murder. 

Today, she doesn’t follow. She has some reading to do.

* * *

  
Madam Pince is Heaven-sent. Without her, she would never have found it.

But the librarian has apparently been developing this rather crafty spell over the past several years — one which can locate fragments of text amongst the entirety of the Hogwarts Library collection. It’s one of the cleverest spells Hermione’s ever had the pleasure to witness, and Madam Pince is only too happy to demonstrate when she asks after the words _‘shared sensation.’_

She leaves the Library that evening with no less than _seven_ heavy tomes, two of which she’s already weeded out.

“Please tell me you’re not planning on reading all of those _tonight,”_ Ron snorts from the sofa opposite. He’s been flipping through the same special edition article on the Chudley Cannons for the past hour, and at this point Hermione’s not certain whether he’s actually reading or just looking at the pictures. 

“I’m only skimming,” she says.

He snorts again — “Yeah. _Skimming,”_ — before leaning over to show Harry a broom. 

She sighs and glances down again, but she should thank him, really. The brief distraction makes her lose her place, and now as she orients herself amidst the passages, her eyes land right on it.

  
_Nocturnal Instinct: Mythos & Fact_

_The common misconceptions with regard to nocturnal beasts and their instincts are widespread and centuries old. Many beasts, particularly the werewolf and the ghoul, are often misjudged under the assumption that they are at the complete mercy of their base instincts. Ghouls are said to make such excessive noise purely due to a lack of evolved consciousness, just as werewolves are often reduced to characterizations of mindless, bloodthirsty predators in most literature._

_These misconceptions are important to address, as it has been proven that ghouls use noise as an instinctive form of communication, and werewolves develop numerous hyperactive sensitivities in order to protect themselves and those in their packs—_

  
Hermione’s eyes stumble and backtrack at the word. 

_Packs?_

In every book she’s ever read, werewolves are said to be solitary creatures, with certain texts even going so far as describing them as reclusive. She turns the page in a rush, skipping over the section that elaborates on ghouls.

  
_Werewolf instincts are a fine-tuned and well-oiled machine. To call them creatures of instinct would only be incorrect if one were to assume this reduced them to a status of predator and nothing more. Werewolves are creatures of scent and sight; creatures of sound and detail; creatures so evolved to their environments that the phases of the moon alter their physical state. These creatures are known to attach themselves to others whose auras and pheromones align with their own. Though not common knowledge in the Wizarding World, werewolves almost always try to mark these individuals as their own — known to the few of us who study it as paramours. Many are familiar with this term and its connotations. The chosen mate of a werewolf is known as a paramour because of the precariousness of such a position. Though no werewolf would ever seek to kill its paramour, it is more often than not the inevitable outcome of such a bond._

_And yet overtime as their instincts evolve, werewolves seem to equip themselves with tools to prevent such harm. Many werewolves we have studied alongside their paramours begin to experience what we have formally named ‘symbiotic sensation.’ This side effect of the bond is characterized by shared physical sensation amongst both werewolf and para—_

  
She slams the book shut a little too quickly and with a little too much fervor. Harry raises his eyebrows at her over the edge of that weathered copy of _Advanced Potion Making._

“Alright there, Hermione?”

She clears her throat and sinks back a little into the sofa. “Yes. Fine. I — my eyes are tired, that’s all.” And she clears her throat again without meaning to, overcompensating. “Bit of a boring book, really. Nothing I haven’t read about before.” 

She shrugs and smiles outwardly.

Inside, she's screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come yell at me: https://www.facebook.com/groups/313342693333861/?ref=share


	4. Hands / Faces

She is unusually adept at doing things the wrong way around. Dessert before dinner. Showering before a jog. Essays on the weekends, leisure reads during the week. 

She’s always been the type to suck the wound after cleaning it. And this is no exception. 

There are a number of things she should absolutely do first, knowing what she knows now. Chiefly, more reading. She should already be in the Library. Should find out everything there is to know about paramours and werewolves alike. But since forcing herself to finish the passage last night, she hasn’t touched the book again, and now she only knows the term for it. 

_Symbiotic sensation._

The book feels impossibly heavy in her bag this morning, burning a hole into her side where it rests. But even if she can’t bring herself to reread it, she has another option. She can go to Professor McGonagall. Professor Dumbledore, even. Malfoy said it himself — Dumbledore’s aware of the situation.

But odds are he’s certainly not aware of _this,_ and approaching him about it seems like the responsible thing to do. The smart thing. The way the book put it, if this situation is in fact what it says it is, both she and Malfoy could be in danger. And it’s Professor Dumbledore’s sworn oath to protect his students.

But of course she doesn’t go to Dumbledore. That would be the logical next step, and evidently she no longer follows logical steps.

No, instead she wakes early, putting very little thought into the state of her appearance as she collects her books — dreaded tome included — and slings her tie around her neck. She’s on her way out of the dormitory before any of the other girls are awake and, judging by the empty halls, before a great deal of the student body as well. 

At a quarter past seven, Hermione settles herself on a stone bench just around the corner from the staircase leading to the Dungeons. She doesn’t read. Doesn’t practice charms. Hardly even thinks, really. She only stares across the corridor at the opposite wall, memorizing the pattern of the bricks until the Slytherins start to emerge. One by one, the earliest to rise pass her on their way up to the Great Hall for breakfast. 

Some don’t notice her presence. Others spare her a side glance or a sneer over their shoulders. 

Malfoy — the inconvenient bastard — apparently sleeps rather late. It’s nearly eight before his shock of blond rounds the corner, and she considers herself lucky she’s only lost a small portion of her nerve by then.

“Malfoy,” she calls out, louder than she expected — too loud — as she lurches to her feet. 

The level of obvious frustration he emits at the sound of her voice is hardly surprising, and yet she still manages to take offense. With a huff that’s more of a growl, Malfoy stops in his tracks halfway past her bench and spins to face her. 

“Granger.”

His jaw is tight, voice tighter. 

She has to clear her throat to get the words out right. “I — I have to speak with you.”

A twitch of that jaw. “You already are.”

She can feel her nostrils flare. _“Privately.”_

The way Malfoy glances around at that makes it quite clear he hopes no one’s seen or heard, and she does her best not to overtly grind her teeth. 

“That is, if you can fit it into your busy schedule.”

His gaze snaps back to hers, eyes narrowing to slits. _“Ten_ minutes,” he hisses. And then, “Go. Lead the way.”

She’s lucky she remembers which classroom is vacant on the Dungeons level. Doesn’t really doubt that he’ll hold her to those ten minutes and can’t afford to waste time searching for a quiet spot. 

Malfoy slams the door behind him with more aggression than necessary, yanking the bag off his shoulder and slinging it onto a desk. 

“What?” he snaps, arms crossing so easily over his chest it’s like it’s their natural state. He slumps back against the door and appears to put every effort into looking uncommonly bored. 

And suddenly she wants nothing more than to knock that expression right off of his face. Watch it slide away like hot butter and die somewhere on the floor. 

Turns out it’s rather easy.

“Do you know what a paramour is?”

There’s a pause — stark. Heavy. 

“Yes,” he says finally, and his tone tells her it’s a casual knowledge. Something he knows offhand. His body tells her something else. The moment the word crossed her lips, he got tense, shoulders bunching up and the smooth slant of his lips slipping downward. That expression died a painful, satisfying death. Now, even from her distance, she can see his fingernails digging into his biceps through the thin white cotton of his shirt.

“Good,” she says, stepping to the side once she’s looked her fill and taking a seat on the edge of one of the desks. “Then you probably know what symbiotic sensation is, too.”

Malfoy really doesn’t appear to have control over his own face. That subtle downward curve of his mouth turns into an outright scowl, top lip curling up a fraction.

“Is this another one of your fucking inquisitions?” he demands, and the simpering tone that follows is apparently meant to be her own. _“Does it hurt? Are you lonely? Do you wear a collar and a leash?”_

“Do you?” she asks before she can stop herself.

Malfoy reaches for his book bag. 

“Alright, stop. Wait.” She hops off the desk and holds out a hand, quickly wiping the wry smile off her face. “This is important.”

“Hardly seems like it.” He yanks the bag over his shoulder and reaches for the door. “Maybe one of these days you’ll learn to mind your own fucking business—”

He’s barely twisted the knob when she slams the palm of her hand down on the table. Loud. Hard. Enough to sting. Malfoy’s own hand jerks away from the knob, clenching instinctively into a fist.

He goes very still, an audible hiss of breath leaving his nose. And when he doesn’t turn to face her, she speaks to the broad, rigid expanse of his back.

“As it happens, Malfoy…this is _our_ business.”

He just breathes out again, loud and aggressive. She thinks she sees him press his forehead against the door for the briefest moment. 

“What do I have to do to get you to admit it?” she asks, risking a step in his direction. “Slap myself in the face? Hold my hand over a flame?”

Malfoy whirls around. _“Try_ it.” And all at once he’s storming towards her, book bag flying off his shoulder yet again — only this time he doesn’t toss it on the desk, he sends it catapulting across the room. It hits the wall on the opposite end, and she can hear something shatter. 

She doesn’t turn to look, though. Can’t look away as he comes to a stiff halt about two feet from her, lording his height and size and just panting angrily down into her face.

She’s never seen anyone lose their temper so quickly.

“Try it,” he hisses again. “I dare you.”

His pupils are enormous, chest rising and falling like he’s just run a mile. Something about the sight of it is invigorating. She realizes that perhaps she should feel threatened. Even a little frightened, what with him looming over her like this. 

But instead she’s somehow confident enough to push her luck.

Quick as a flash, she raises her hand, fingers locked tight — poised for a slap just centimeters from her own face — and the way he _flinches…_

It’s all she’d ever need to know and more.

Utterly damning evidence. 

Perhaps a normal person would accept this as a victory and put their hand down. Accept the furious and embarrassed look in his eyes and move forward.

She doesn’t feel normal in this moment. She feels — strange. Sort of lulled, as though by a draught, and the longer she stares back into his eyes, the more lax her muscles feel. The sharp angle of her hand fades, fingers curling inward. She doesn’t blink as she moves her palm slowly towards her face.

“How much of it do you feel?” she asks in a quiet voice. Nearly a whisper. Her fingertips spread across her own cheek — just the faintest caress. “Only the pain?”

Malfoy’s chest stops heaving, panting breaths cutting off abruptly.

She moves as though drugged, sliding her palm down the side of her jaw. “Only intense sensations?” 

He twitches. A movement so slight, she would’ve missed it without her eyes locked on him the way they are. Would’ve missed the barely-there flutter of his eyelashes. An instantaneous urge to close his eyes that he seems to fight back against with every molecule. 

She releases a shuddering breath at the sight of it, forefinger starting a path upward from her chin towards her lips. “Or do you—”

His reflexes are startling. 

In a movement so quick it’s a blur, his hand darts out and shackles her wrist, yanking hers away from her face. Holding it there, about an inch between them both, and giving it a shake. 

“Don’t fuck around,” he whispers. At least, on the surface it’s a whisper. When combined with the look on his face — lethal, _feral_ — it’s a great deal more like a threat. “This isn’t funny.”

That’s her question answered.

But it’s difficult to focus with his fist wrapped around her wrist. As of yet, she hasn’t felt anything she couldn’t attribute to her own self. Hasn’t experienced any sensation that might’ve been in any way not her own. In any way his. 

Now, though, with that bruising grip growing warmer and heavier by the second, she swears she feels the faintest twinge of… _something_. The very slightest sense of holding something small and breakable in her own fist.

It’s uncanny. 

It’s enough to make her yank away.

“I don’t think it’s funny,” she forces out, stepping back and trying to gather her composure. She cradles her hand to her chest like he’s burned it, massaging the blood back into her wrist. “It’s not funny at all. That’s why I had to speak with you.”

Malfoy seems to recover in his own right. Though — whether consciously or not — she does see him rub the back of his hand roughly across the side of his face. The same side she touched herself. The right.

“So,” she says, clearing her throat, “if that’s out of the way, we can move forwa—”

 _“This is a fucking disaster.”_ Malfoy throws up his hands and spins away from her, threading fingers into that white blond hair. 

“I know,” she says, more to herself than him — but at least he’s acknowledging it. That’s a relief all its own. 

“How the _fuck_ did this happen?” He’s started to pace, mashing those fists into his eyes.

“I don’t know.”

“I can’t fucking—” He breaks off and twists to face her again, this time jabbing a finger in her face. “No, actually I _do_ know. It was you. _You_. Fucking — fucking following me around. Fucking _stalking_ me. This is — this is _you_. This is on y—”

 _“Please,”_ she scoffs, feeling the furious color flood to her cheeks. “Don’t stand there and pretend you know everything about werewolves one moment and then absolutely nothing the next.” 

“Oh, go fuck yourself—”

She’s already yanking her bag off her shoulder and digging around in it for the book. “Read this one?” she snaps, tossing it at him. It’s nice to watch him scrabble for it, the sudden heavy weight clearly unexpected.

“Yes,” he snaps back as soon as he can read the title. He looks about ready to toss it back at her before he thinks better of it and throws it down on the desk at his side. 

“Good.” She folds her arms. “Then you’ll remember at least a bit of what it says about paramours and how they’re _chosen.”_

Malfoy lurches toward her, finger in her face again. “Let’s get one thing straight, Granger — _right now_. Let’s make this crystal fucking clear. I did not _choose_ you.” 

She narrows her eyes. Does her best to hold her ground. “Consciously? Maybe not. But _instinctively—”_

He’s hardly listening. Too busy rattling off every offensive thing he can think of. “Why in Merlin’s fucking name would I choose you? Fucking look at you! Look at me. Look at _us,_ Merlin’s fucking _tit._ Give me one good reason I’d make a fucking paramour out of a Mudblood like—”

Her wand is out in an instant, and she points it back at him the way he pointed his finger at her. “Say it again,” she demands, channeling all the menace into her tone she can manage. “Go on. Do it. Say it again.”

Malfoy hesitates for only a moment before taking an aggressive step toward her — and then he hesitates again, less than a foot away.   
  
There’s no telling what he means to do with that rage she sees swimming in his gaze — in the clench of his fists at his sides — but Hermione barks out a laugh none the less. 

“Even better.” She waves her wand. “Do it.”

Malfoy draws his lip up over his teeth. Almost intentionally, she thinks, so she can see one of those razor sharp canines. And for a moment she wonders what it would feel like — to have that ripping through your skin. Tearing open your flesh. She wonders why she wonders that.

“Oh, but you can’t, can you?” she asks, regaining focus. She brandishes her wand again. “It’s almost as if you know it’ll hurt _you_ …to hurt _me.”_

It must be the sarcasm in her tone that sets him off. 

He closes that last foot between them — quick, like a rush of wind — and even though he’s very, very careful not to touch her, he is also very, _very_ close. Her expression bleeds into something altogether less powerful in the face of it, and she hates that she lowers her wand.

“You think I won’t hurt you?” he asks, tone low, breath warm against the skin of her forehead. 

She doesn’t answer. Just looks up into his face and exhales as slowly as she can.

“I could hurt you,” he says, blinking methodically as he stares at her. As though he’s running through all the ways he could do it in his head. “I could hurt you _so badly.”_ His breath comes in a short rush at the end of the sentence. Like the idea is tantalizing.

She swallows the saliva pooling on her tongue. 

“Would it be worth it?”

His jaw tightens. At their distance, she can hear the way he grinds his teeth. And the bravado of moments ago seems to fade all too quickly back into that fury she’s familiar with. 

“It can’t be you,” he spits. “You — you’re fucking unbearable. I can’t _stand_ you.” His knuckles crack at his sides, clenched into even tighter fists.

It feels like it takes every ounce of courage, but she lifts herself up onto her tiptoes — pushes herself up into his face. Glares and hisses out the word, _“Tough,”_ with their noses less than a centimeter apart. 

Malfoy breathes out again — sharply. The opposite of a gasp if there was one. And for a fraction of a second, she sees his gaze flit down to the lower half of her face. 

Then he loses it.

“Fuck this. _Fuck this.”_ He’s ten feet away from her in an instant, storming back towards the door — only he doesn’t go through it. _“No,”_ he practically shouts, and to punctuate it, he puts his fist through the corner of the wall. 

Just punches a fragment the size of a grapefruit clean off of it.

She can’t help her gasp. It’s loud and unexpected and the bright scarlet she sees painting his knuckles when he turns back to face her is shocking. 

The dust settles slowly behind him.

“Did you feel that?” he asks, voice suddenly quiet and calm. 

A long silence spreads between them, and her gaze flits from the brand new slice taken out of the wall to his suddenly unreadable eyes. 

“No,” she lies. 

“Good,” he says and wrenches open the door. “Then maybe there’s hope.”

He never retrieves his book bag. 

And she waits until the door slams shut to shake out her stinging hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me: https://www.facebook.com/groups/313342693333861/?epa=SEARCH_BOX
> 
> Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0qEW5Eu2D4GyMigMSn87Bz?si=yq4L_SqYTU2gz5bgvRL73A


	5. Ghosts / Mirror Images

“Hermione?”

The voice startles her awake, skin of her forehead cold and clammy as she separates it from the glass of the windowpane.

“What are you doing?”

Ginny is standing a few feet away in the dark, robe clutched around herself, tired eyes squinted. 

Hermione jerks upright where she sits on the windowsill. Rubs her face and blinks aggressively until she’s somewhat alert. She can hardly believe she was stupid enough to fall asleep. 

“I — I, erm — nothing. I was charting — charting stars, and I must’ve…gotten drowsy.” She plasters a sheepish smile onto her face. The imprint of her cheek is still evident on the glass, but she resists the urge to wipe it away as she slips down off the sill instead, moving quickly back towards her four-poster. 

Ginny hesitates by the corner of her bed for a moment, brows drawn together. “…Alright,” she says finally and steps away, disappearing into the darkness of the dormitory. “Sleep well, then.”

Hermione waits until she hears her get into bed before slumping back against her pillows. She heaves a quiet sigh and covers her face. 

_Charting stars._

Of course she wasn’t charting stars — the cloud cover’s too thick. And Ginny must know that. Must’ve seen the rather obvious lack of astronomy books and constellation charts around her. But she didn’t have time to come up with a better lie. 

The stars didn’t get her out of bed, _he_ did.

She’d been sleeping fairly well until the sound woke her up — perhaps meaningless to others, but unmistakable to her. 

A howl. Low-pitched and lasting, launched above all other noises of the night from somewhere just outside the Grounds. A sound like no other. Desperate and pained and just the slightest, most ineffable bit familiar. 

She could hear his voice in it.

And her feet left the bed before her mind did. Drew her over to the window, where her gaze fixed on the bright glow of the full moon and her hand met the glass without thinking. 

She felt no pain. Feels none now. 

But in place of pain, she does feel _something_. A sort of emotional discomfort. Something like panic or anticipation. Something not quite right. 

The pain comes eventually too, but it’s of her own making. Pain that springs up unexpectedly, like a mallet to the chest, when she thinks of him alone — probably confined to the Shrieking Shack — yanking on chains and howling to no one.

“It’s Malfoy,” she whispers aloud against her pillow — her best effort to crush her own thoughts. “Let him rot.”

Eventually, she manages to fall back asleep, but it’s not without thinking how incredibly, disconcertingly bitter those words taste in her mouth.

* * *

  
Over the course of the next week, new problems appear to emerge from every crack in the flagstone. 

Ever since that disaster of a discussion with Malfoy, even the simplest things have become complicated. Things like getting dressed in the morning. 

She can no longer tug on her dress shirt and lazily do up the buttons. Can no longer drag that red and gold tie around her collar or yank on her shoes with such reckless abandon. No, now sliding the sleeves up over her arms is an exercise in confusion, because automatically she wonders if he can feel that starched cotton moving across his own skin. If he can feel the drag of her fingernails against his shins as she pulls her stockings up her legs. 

Showers become…troublesome. She rushes through what used to be a languid lather, careful not to let her hands linger anywhere. Careful to let the water do most of the work. 

But it becomes difficult just to move around like she used to.

And more than ever she wants to go to Dumbledore, even as a strange side of her insists that she needs to gather more evidence first.

How much more evidence does she need? When every breath she takes appears to infuriate Malfoy beyond belief?

It’s hardly a criminal offense to accidentally burn yourself with your own tea, but the look Malfoy gives her from across the Great Hall on the morning she takes a too-hot sip says she ought to be tried, convicted and sentenced to death. 

And it’s unhealthy — this habit she’s developed of egging him on. She feels like a parasite, crawling around at all hours under his skin, and she should be far more ashamed of how much she likes it. 

But could anyone really blame her?

It’s the ultimate antidote to Malfoy. The simplest way to wipe a dirty look off that pale, bony face. He sees fit to glare at her? Fine then. She’ll drop a shard of ice down her shirt. Watching him jump up so fast he slams both knees on the underside of the table is first class entertainment.

But somehow — impossibly — Malfoy becomes only one of her problems.

Cormac Fucking McLaggen, a boy she’s spared about as much thought for as a garden gnome since First Year, has apparently taken a rather keen interest in her. How and when, she has no idea. All she knows is _no. No way. Not a chance._  
  
If there were ever an antithesis to her type, this is it. His overly seductive smirks, overly white teeth, overly muscular physique — all of it makes her nose scrunch up. He’s taken to following her out of the Pitch after Quidditch practices, and she hates herself for that little slip up with the Confundus Charm. He has much more time to invade her personal space as an alternate than any starting player would. 

But if anything positive could be gleaned from McLaggen’s misplaced affections, it would be a bit of well-earned jealousy in Ron. The sort she so desperately fed off of in Fourth Year, when it came to Viktor. And yet, to make matters worse, Ron seems distant and distracted — still intoxicated by whatever high winning the position of Keeper brought on. She’s lucky if he has a glance to spare for her over the course of an entire day, and all he seems able to talk about are the new set of leather pads Mrs. Weasley saved up for and owled to him and that godforsaken missed block of Cormac’s — which was _her_ doing. 

If she’s honest, she’s the real Keeper here.

And on top of all that, she has this overwhelming, unending sensation of being watched. It takes her days of glancing over her own shoulder to realize that it’s Harry’s fault. But not because he’s watching her. 

Another one for her list of symbiotic side effects. 

At the very least, when the first Quidditch match of the season begins that Friday, she feels she may close out the week on a high note.

Ron looks so alive on his broom, emboldened and glowing with the confidence of Harry’s Liquid Luck. She doesn’t approve in the slightest, but she can’t fight the smile spreading across her face with each cocky and downright ostentatious block — the effect of which is doubled when Harry reveals a still-full bottle amidst the chaos of the victory party.

So it was all Ron. Ron’s talent. Ron’s skill. 

Warmth bubbles up in her chest as she looks back at him, dead center in the common room, awash with streamers and red glitter, a grin splitting ear to ear. She knows what it feels like for him, living in Harry’s shadow. The importance of this moment cannot be overstated. He needs this. Deserves this. He—

Lavender Brown steps out of nowhere, curls her arms around Ron’s neck and smashes her lips to his.

Hermione feels like the floor collapses underneath her. 

A gasp catches in her throat, and she can only stare. Stare as Ron starts to kiss her back, so enthusiastic. So desirous. Stare as every moment and every glance that’s set her heart on fire these last six years gets extinguished right before her eyes. She imagines it would feel better to be stabbed with a dull knife. 

And the memory that fills her head is the worst she can think of — Ron’s words echoing between her ears.

_“She’s a nightmare. Honestly.”_

No. No, no.

 _This_ is a nightmare. 

She turns slowly — knows if she moves too fast, she’ll throw up all over Harry. But she escapes his questioning hand when he reaches for her and manages to somehow push her way out of the crowd before the first tear falls.

Once it does, the rest come crashing through like a dam’s broken. Just flooding down her cheeks, hot and endless and utterly humiliating. 

She has no notion of where she’s going — no idea which corridor she’s in. Everything is blurry and tinged red with a fury she can’t put into words. Those nights she spent under her covers, curled up tight imagining all the details of what her first kiss with him would be like — they fly to the forefront like vengeful ghosts. She always imagined it’d be different than all the other kisses she’d had. Different than the ones with Viktor. It would mean more. And for whatever else Ron might want from her — and by god, she’d planned to let him have it — she wouldn’t be inexperienced.

A spur-of-the-moment decision last summer had seen to that.

But with Ron it was always going to mean more. It was always _supposed_ to mean more. Even while saving nothing, she’d been saving everything for him. Everything that really mattered. _Everything._

The alcove just ahead is the first thing she’s able to pull into focus, and with a strangled, relieved sort of sob, she moves to throw herself into it. To collapse against the wall and drag her knees up to her chest and just cry. Cry until it hurts. Cry until she forgets how to. 

There is only one flaw in this plan.

It’s self-important, infuriating and blond, and it’s already taking up the other half of the alcove she couldn’t see to begin with.

 _“Fuck,”_ she chokes out before she can stop herself, going all tense and defensive at the sight of him and immediately struggling to get back to her feet. More words tumble out unfiltered amidst another sob. “Not right now. God, _why?”_ She covers her face with both hands, knowing he’s already seen her crying but hoping not to give him any more fuel to fan the flames.

Malfoy makes a breathy, affronted sound. “The fuck do you mean, _‘not right now?’_ I was here first.”

 _Leave,_ demands the voice in her head. And she even turns on her heel to obey, because she does have _some_ basic survival skills. But then he says,

“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” 

And she can’t even begin to explain why her legs give out the way they do. Why she collapses back down across from him and just sobs into her palms for a good thirty seconds. 

Malfoy wears an expression of horror when she eventually forces herself to look at him through the cracks between her fingers. 

“Are you _barking?”_ he asks with his brows at his hairline, and she actually sees him scoot a little further back towards his own wall, book falling shut in his lap.

“I don’t need you to make this any worse,” she splutters, sniffling and trying to wipe away some of the mess with the sleeve of her jumper. “Alright? Just for once, just — just don’t make it any worse.”

Malfoy snorts. Scoffs. Wedges his book under his arm and moves to extricate himself from the alcove. “Yeah, well — as it happens, I feel a bit sick, so have it your—”

“That’s probably me.” She isn’t thinking at this point. Her filter has simply evaporated, and the first words she can come up with are apparently also the first ones out. “Making you feel sick,” she clarifies when she finds him paused, one leg slung over towards the floor and an eyebrow raised.

“Oh, really?” is his reply, voice ripe with sarcasm. 

_Let him leave._

She should. She absolutely should. But when he doesn’t continue to get up, she finds herself nodding and wiping her eyes with the other sleeve, and a moment later she says a stupid, _stupid_ thing.

“Sorry.”

The noise he makes at that is abrupt and incredulous — a puff of breath that seems to make his entire posture deflate and sends him sinking back into that languid pose against the wall. “Well, that’s a first.”

She drops her arm onto her knee and her chin onto her arm, pointedly looking at his shiny black shoes rather than at him. “What is?”

“You. Apologizing.”

She squints and spares him a glance through the tears to scrunch her nose up. “I’ve never had a reason to apologize to you.”

Malfoy just swaps one raised eyebrow for the other. “I didn’t say to _me.”_

She squeezes her own brows together and huffs against the wet fabric of her sleeve. “I apologize when I’m wrong.”

Malfoy laughs outright. “And when do you ever think you’re wrong?”

She drops her forehead a little so her mess of curls will hide her face. Decides she won’t answer that. But this makes way for a long and echoing expanse of silence between them, and for a while all she can think about is how he never stops tapping his foot. 

Then he says, “So — what? Trip and skin your knee or something?”

It’s rude but it’s also ridiculous, and she feels a deeper need to point out the latter. “You’d know if I did.” 

Malfoy looks only mildly displeased when she glances back up, curls still halfway covering her eyes. 

“Well, then what? What’s got your stomach in literal fucking _knots?_ Because I feel fucking terrible, Granger.” 

At least he admits it. 

She, though — she’s fairly certain she doesn’t want to admit it. Would honestly rather eat newts than admit to Malfoy that Ron’s gone and stomped all over her heart again. Revealing any sort of weakness to him seems like a suicide attempt. 

But here she is already, crying all over herself. And if Malfoy’s going to be walking around with a trampled heart for a few weeks too — and without good reason — she figures she owes him at least a partial explanation.

She rubs roughly at the corners of her eyes and digs her chin into her knee, speaking to his shoes again. “It’s Ron.”

Malfoy gives a twitch and she instantly wonders whether he’s rolling his eyes. Continues either way.

“He...I — I suppose I was under the impression that he...” God, saying it to him makes her itch. “I thought he felt something for me.” She clears her throat. “Thought he might — do something about it after all these years. But tonight sort of squashed that to bits.”

Malfoy is unexpectedly quiet at first. 

Steeling herself, she slides her chin forward to look up at him through damp, tangled lashes. 

“Weasley,” is all he says, with his face flat and his eyes hooded. It’s like the name has sucked all the life out of him. “This is about Weasley.” Not a question.

She nods anyhow.

And there’s that roll of the eyes she was waiting for. He lets his head thunk back against the stone wall behind him and shakes it slowly, gaze on the ceiling. “You can’t be serious.”

Hermione finds herself tugging her knees in tighter to her chest, like a shield. “I am.”

“You’re telling me I feel I might vomit because of Weasley.”

“Yes.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

He laughs. Just a breath of a laugh, but from the angle his chin is at, she finds herself watching his throat constrict around it. Watching the muscles move. “That’s a sick joke,” he says. 

“Well, it isn’t my fault.” She goes to dab at her eyes with her sleeve again but finds the tears mostly dry. “If these were normal circumstances, you wouldn’t be feeling any of it.”

Malfoy tips his head back down and fixes her with a look she doesn’t quite understand. “But these aren’t normal circumstances.” He juts that pointed chin towards her, propping one arm lazily on his knee. “Go on, then. What’d Weasley do?”

She relaxes her shoulders a bit, letting her legs spread out and cross in front of her. “It isn’t what he did, it’s what _she_ did. What he _let_ her do.”

“She?”

“Lavender.”

If she could take any small comfort from this night, it’d be the way Malfoy’s face screws up at her name. “Brown?” he clarifies, making a disgusted noise in the back of his throat when she nods.

And maybe it’s that she feels this may be the first time they’ve felt the same way about someone. About something. _Anything._ The words come freely.

“You know, she’s really not a good kisser. I thought someone like Lavender would’ve mastered the art of kissing by now, but she’s actually rather rotten at it.”

“And how would you know?” asks Malfoy. “Have _you_ kissed her?”

She pulls a face. “No.” Then, crossing her arms, “Have you?”

He pulls the same face. _“No.”_

“Well then.” She gestures limply in front of her. “There you go. Anyhow, I don’t need to kiss her to know that. I can tell just by watching. It’s apparent in her persona.” 

Malfoy snorts. “By that logic, I could say that you’re probably a rotten kisser too.”

She feels her eyes go wide and furious in an instant, and she tries to keep her nostrils from flaring. She _hates_ when her nostrils flare. 

“As if _you’d_ know.”

Malfoy shrugs. “It’s like you said. It’s apparent in your persona.”

She splutters, lurching off the wall to lean across the alcove towards him. “In what possible way?”

He smiles a little wickedly — he’s laughing at her. “So touchy. No need to get offended, Granger. We are using _your_ logic after all.”

“How is it apparent in my persona?”

He laughs. “Merlin, I can already feel your blood boiling. Calm dow—”

_“How is it apparent in my persona?”_

She only knows she’s yelling when her voice comes echoing back at her, harsh — livid. 

Malfoy appears unfazed. Takes a moment to study her, head cocking to one side. It’s an infuriating little movement. But then all at once he’s leaning forward too, and suddenly they’re both cross-legged. Mirror images. He puts his elbows on his knees and laces his fingers together — like he’s deciding his next move in a chess game. 

“You really want to know?”

She puts her elbows on her knees too, narrowing her eyes. “Yes, I really do.”

 _Do you?_ the voice in her head warns.

It’s too late. Malfoy’s already talking. “Look at you. Look at your hair. Look at your clothes. Look at the way you sit and speak. Everything about you screams _‘frigid.’_ It’s like you spend an hour every morning deciding how best to make yourself unapproachable. And look at the way you act. Always correcting people. Always tripping over yourself to raise that hand first in class.”

She breathes in sharply through her nose, gathering her hands into fists over her ankles. Digging her fingernails into her palms and hoping he’ll feel the sting.

Even if he does, he keeps going. 

“Look at that fit you threw in Divination. Third Year. Oh yeah, I still remember. Couldn’t stand to be anything less than first. It’s _unbelievably_ apparent in your persona, Granger. It’s on your fucking sleeve. It doesn’t take a Seer to know you’d rather not try at all than fail. And based on that logic — _your_ logic — I’d say yeah. Yeah, you’re probably a rotten kisser. You’d probably spend the entire time overthinking and over-correcting and probably fucking _judging_ the poor, unlucky bastard who—”

She makes a conscious choice in that moment. Knows full well how stupid it is, but she’s just — just absolutely _blinded_ by rage.

She seizes him by the loose collar of his shirt and forces their lips together.

It hurts. Their teeth clash and their foreheads collide and she feels the hot ache from both ends. Feels Malfoy go rigid in her hold and catches his grunt of pain and surprise in her mouth. 

To her credit, she lets him go instantly.

Shocked and horrified, she yanks herself away and shoves him back hard — just slams her palm against his chest like he’s the one who did it. Her heart is racing. Thudding like horse hooves, loud in her ears.

Malfoy looks about the same, eyes wide and furious, hand flying up almost instinctively to wipe at his mouth. 

“What the fuck?” he demands. 

She forces her tongue to function. “You — you wouldn’t stop.”

“That was a _horrible_ fucking kiss!”

“—wouldn’t be quiet. I — you—”

“I think you cut my fucking _lip_ , you fucking _lunatic—”_

“—didn’t know what else to—”

“—is that really the best you’ve got?”

She stops her mindless blabbering at once, the alcove plunging into harsh silence. Her pulse doesn’t slow by so much as a beat, and all she can do is stare. Stare dead on into those eyes as though they’re a pair of headlights, on their way to take her life. 

“What?” she breathes, watching his pupils dilate. Why — why do they always have to do that?

Malfoy breathes out slowly for a long moment, unblinking. 

“I said,” he manages at last, voice low — still furious. But he emphasizes each piece in turn, somehow utterly unapologetic. _“Is that — the best — you’ve got?”_

Now it feels like her pulse just stops. Like she goes deaf for a moment, nothing but a ringing in her ears.

“No,” she feels herself say. Can’t really hear it. Everything is muffled. Out of focus.

Malfoy’s eyes narrow until all she can see is the black of those pupils. “No?” he echoes, and she can only feel the vibration of it. 

Her senses are consumed by something else. Something outside of her. Something thick and dark and inverse. Something that tingles in the backs of her knees and in her fingertips. Something that begs her to lean forward. 

She exhales and swears she can feel her own breath gusting against her lips — _his_ lips. Her head feels heavy. Forehead feels magnetized, sinking slowly forward.

The tip of her nose brushes against his. The warmth of his silent gasp seeps through her skin. She lets her eyes fall shut—

_“Hermione?”_

Harry’s voice. A loud echo from the stairs leading down into the alcove. Less than a wall away.

She barely has time to open her eyes and Malfoy’s gone — tearing himself back from her and snatching up his book like a lifeline. He’s out of there so fast, his own scent doesn’t have time to catch up. 

It lingers in the air around her like a ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me: https://www.facebook.com/groups/313342693333861/
> 
> Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0qEW5Eu2D4GyMigMSn87Bz?si=3kas-WH_Q76TYXhL5wkTWA
> 
> Trailer. https://youtu.be/h04tKBC_ggw


	6. Disgust / Vengeance

She stares at the canopy of her four-poster that night and thinks of nothing but his face. 

His _face_. Once a harbinger of such disgust and hatred in her mind. Once so excessively sharp and displeasing, creased with disdain. She used to believe he slept in that scowl — that it had become natural for him. She used to find him so utterly forgettable. Unworthy of her time. 

And yet now, in these past few days — past few _weeks,_ if she’s honest — his face is the one she sees behind her eyelids. With every blink, she sees those cold gray eyes. Those bottomless, sable pupils. She finds herself considering the angle of his jaw as something less than lethal. Something smooth and refined and carefully carved. Finds herself wondering if his hair is as soft as it looks, now that he no longer slicks it back. 

He is not what she prefers. That’s undeniable. There is nothing warm or inviting about him, not in the slightest. She has always preferred freckles and kind eyes and soft, uneven smiles. Malfoy’s skin is pale — almost threatening in its flawlessness. His eyes don’t deal in kindness. No, they calculate. Assess. Strategize. And his grin is the cruelest thing she’s ever seen. 

But tonight, after such an impossibly stupid mistake, she finds she cannot chase his image away. He lingers there in her mind until she falls asleep, staring at her as though he knows something she doesn’t.

She can no longer waste time.

* * *

  
_Dear Professor Lupin,_

_It was lovely to see you at the Burrow this past Summer. I hope this letter finds you well, and that you and Tonks are settling in nicely at your new home. I’m sorry not to be writing under better circumstances._

_I’ve found myself in a somewhat complicated situation, and I don’t see who else I can turn to._

_There is a student here at Hogwarts who suffers from your same affliction. I am not certain when he was bitten, but I know he has undergone several transformations and that he’s working to treat himself with Wolfsbane. I’m writing because I believe we may have inadvertently formed some kind of bond. I am aware of the term Paramour and have researched it some, but I’m hesitant to assume such a classification so early._

_At present, we are experiencing some shared sensations, more so on his end than mine. As I believe we are still in the early stages of whatever this is, I hoped you might be able to help. Is there any way to reverse it? To prevent it from going any further?_

_Of course I understand if this is not a subject you feel comfortable discussing, or if there is nothing you can do, but I figured it was worth trying._

_Thank you so much. I hope to hear from you soon._

_Sincerely,_

_Hermione_

  
She prays she’ll hear back within a week, but considering her luck it’s entirely possibly the owl will drop dead trying to deliver it. 

* * *

  
How long is it supposed to take to fall out of love? 

She’s certain there’s meant to be a formula. Figures it must have something to do with however long you’ve been in love with that person to begin with — which is the problem. Because she’s sure she’s been in love with Ron for at least four years. 

And yet it takes less than a week to fall straight out of it. Like a clean dive. A week divided into two distinct stages.

Disgust and vengeance. 

The disgust only lasts a few days. The morning she sends her letter to Lupin, she makes it as far as the breakfast table before being assaulted by the colossal eyesore that is Lavender and Ron together. Lavender has abandoned Parvati and Romilda at their usual side of the table in favor of draping herself all over him, hardly a square inch of their bodies not connected in one way or another. She’s practically sitting on his lap. 

It would appear they are an item now. Marvelous.

Hermione has to squeeze her eyes shut when Lavender lets loose a high-pitched peal of laughter, feeling the instant beginnings of a tension headache. She reaches for the teapot in front of Harry, then thinks better of it and conjures a cup of straight espresso. 

Harry glances sideways at her, leaning tiredly on his hand. He gives her a subtle nudge with his other elbow, rolling his eyes when Ron’s not looking. She gives him a tucked smile back.

He did find her last night, shortly after Malfoy evaporated into thin air. And she had to pretend she hadn’t just kissed his worst enemy. Was it really a kiss? No, more of an attack really. 

Either way, she’d been blushing something furious, and when Harry found her she had to force more tears. Had to tuck her face into his shoulder and mumble nonsense about Ron, even when Ron was suddenly the last thing on her mind.

But Harry was incredibly kind. Blessedly silent, for the most part. And she realized then what a poor friend she’s been to him.

For weeks he’s had to watch Dean with Ginny. But he doesn’t go running off crying every time they kiss. Harry is much better at bottling things up.

Still, she makes herself a promise to check on him more often. 

Lavender laughs again — honestly, it’s a brain-numbing sort of a sound. Hermione takes another sip of espresso to counteract it, but then she says, “Oh, _Won-Won,_ you are _too_ funny—” and she just chokes. Bucks forward and covers her nose, eyes watering. 

Just what _exactly_ is a _Won-Won?_

Harry thumps her on the back. “Too hot?”

She nods into her hand, silently thanking god for him as she tries to swallow it down without spitting anything out. By the time she’s somewhat recovered, Ron and Lavender are back to snogging. She has to swallow an extra time just to make sure nothing comes back up, glancing away only to accidentally lock eyes with Malfoy at the next table over.

Her pulse gives a little panicked flutter, thinking of last night, but then she realizes he’s making faces at her. His cheeks are bright red and his eyes are too. _‘What the fuck?’_ he mouthes aggressively as he wipes away the tears with a napkin, still coughing a little.

Zabini slaps his back too, less gently than Harry. _“Chew_ your food, mate.”

“Fuck you.”

She looks away quickly. Ends up having to look straight down at the table because apparently the options are Ron and Lavender attempting to eat one another — or Malfoy, and neither are bearable at the moment.

By lunch, Ron’s lips are so swollen it looks as though he’s contracted a disease, and it takes a _concentrated_ effort not to scrunch her nose up. They haven’t spoken since the Quidditch match, but she doubts he’s even noticed. He can’t seem to get a word out to anyone before Lavender sucks his tongue back into her mouth.

Harry serves as her rock for the majority of the day, always managing to distract her with something new he’s found in that decimated copy of _Advanced Potion Making_ the moment Lavender comes skipping into sight. 

It’s an effective distraction, too. The book makes her nervous. He’s already shown her a handful of spells scribbled into the margins that she doesn’t recognize, and there’s something about the angry slant of that handwriting that sets her on edge. 

She bites back on asking him to turn it in more than once. Can’t really blame him for being curious. 

That would be hypocritical to a fault.

* * *

  
The disgust fades by Wednesday — a relief, considering Tuesday she saw Malfoy charge into the boy’s lavatory _twice_ in between classes, both times after she let her eyes linger on Ron and Lavender a few seconds too long. Her stomach would lurch, and a moment later there’d be a flash of blond across the corridor as he shoved his way through the crowd. The second time, she lingered outside that lavatory, waiting until he came back out wiping his mouth. The sight of her actually made him bare his teeth.

 _“Merlin,_ Granger — get the fuck over him already,” he spat and then stormed off down the hall to the class they were both late for, very careful not to let her get a word out.

If one thing’s clear, they’re apparently not going to discuss what happened between them. 

But by Wednesday, her focus is diverted. After waking from a nightmare filled with Lavender’s simpering face, she can’t fall back asleep. And she becomes consumed by fury. And by an idea.

She realizes as she lies there that she’s allowed Ron to make an egregious error. She’s allowed him to take her for granted. Allowed him to see her as the bookish prude. The know-it-all. The _friend_.

And it’s entirely her own fault.

She shoots up off her back. It’s as though the epiphany injects adrenaline directly into her bloodstream. Because the solution’s been staring her in the face.   
How exactly had Malfoy put it? 

_“Everything about you says ‘ frigid.’” _

She growls under her breath, yanking aside her bed curtains before she remembers to be quiet. 

_“It’s like you spend an hour every morning deciding how best to make yourself unapproachable.”_

No. _No._

Not anymore.

She kneels in front of her trunk at the foot of the bed, glancing over her shoulder to check that the other girls are still asleep. Her gaze lingers on Lavender’s four-poster and her jaw tightens. She whips back around and wrenches open the lid.

_No more._

If she has anything to say about it, Ron will trip and break his teeth on the flagstone the next time he sees her.

* * *

  
She’s the last one out of the dormitory, waiting cross-legged on her bed for all the other girls to leave. And as she waits, she wonders — wonders whether Malfoy woke up this morning consumed by a sense of inexplicable, furious determination. Wonders if he feels this thirst for vengeance she’s got boiling in her stomach.

Perhaps she’s overreacting. Perhaps this is a terrible idea.

Perhaps she doesn’t care.

She clears her throat and pulls her curls down in front of her shoulders, slipping off the bed to take a final look in the mirror. 

She’s never bothered with make-up before. Has never been against it, and yet never felt it was worth it. She’s thinking now that perhaps it was everyone else making her feel that. Leaning forward, she draws her fingers beneath her lower lashes, wiping away wayward flecks of mascara. It needs to be perfect. 

Her eyes look larger like this. Darker. Her lips look fuller coated in the deep shade of crimson she’s used. She’s charmed her hair into submission — but not the way she did in Fourth Year. She’s not taming it — she’s training it. Coaxing it to be wild in the way she wants. The way she feels. 

As for her clothes, well — she can only hope McGonagall doesn’t catch a glimpse of her today. She’s the Professor this little stunt is most likely to alarm.

The top two buttons of her dress shirt are left undone, her tie slung loose where it’s usually so uniform. She’s charmed an inch off the hem of her pleated skirt and opted for the black knee socks — the ones she never had the confidence to wear before. The ones Pansy Parkinson always flaunts.

To top it off, she's done her nails in black and squeezed a blush into her cheeks and she’s just — she’s never felt so powerful.

Staring at her body, she huffs to herself and smiles. “Nice legs, Granger.”

She turns on her heel. 

On second thought, perhaps this isn’t a clean dive out of love at all. This is screaming for a lifeguard. This is becoming the shark.

It feels lovely.

* * *

  
She knows well enough not to overplay this. Knows the fine line between what she wants to achieve and what might be considered desperate.

So she doesn’t swing her hips and she doesn’t change her behavior. She carries that same extra stack of books that won’t fit in her bag out of the portrait hole and all the way down the Grand Staircase. Smiles at Justin Finch-Fletchley as she passes him on his way back up. 

But she’ll admit it goes to her head a little when she hears his feet scuff as he misses the next step.

Similar reactions follow her down the remaining flights, and by the time she reaches the bottom, she’s drunk on courage. Courage she desperately needs, because Ron is there, just ahead of the gold doors to the Great Hall, Lavender dangling off his arm.

“Morning,” she says brightly, and she’s never felt better than she does walking right past him, with his jaw dragging on the floor.

 _“What_ is she _wearing?”_ Lavender hisses in her wake, and hearing the panic in her voice feels like scratching a week-old itch. 

Ginny sweeps in beside her a moment later, linking an arm through hers. “Well, well, well,” she says, grinning when Hermione turns to look at her. “Give him hell, then.”

She can’t help the laugh that bursts from her chest.

This must be what it feels like. Standing in front of the rest. Walking into the room first. Speaking first. Taking instead of giving. Taking up _space._

It feels bloody fantastic.

But as it turns out, she’s not expecting the reaction she enjoys the most. 

Granted, there a number of front-runners. Harry spits out his pumpkin juice when she reaches their section of the table and then tries to blame it on _‘swallowing wrong.’_ Neville turns the color of a bushel of apples. And Seamus, the bastard, actually voices his thoughts for all to hear. “Fuck _me,_ Hermione — where’ve you been hiding all that?”

She just opens her book and pretends to read, smiling to herself when Ginny says, “Get your eyes checked, Seamus.”

Still, it’s none of these. 

It’s what happens at the tail end of breakfast, as the lot of them are getting up to leave for their first class — when Malfoy comes rushing around the corner. He’s clearly overslept, from the state of him, his hair askew and his eyes full of that sort of crazed alertness that comes with rushing straight out of bed. He looks to be on his way to snag a spot of breakfast before the House Elves clear the tables.

His eyes skate past her in his haste as he crosses in front of their pack of Gryffindors, but then he does a double-take and she feels the most peculiar sensation of free fall in her chest when their eyes meet. Out of nowhere. She almost trips, managing just in time to save herself by latching onto Ginny’s arm.

Malfoy has no one to save him. He walks face-first into one of those massive gold doors and becomes the punchline of a joke for the rest of the afternoon.

She thinks she should’ve done this ages ago.

* * *

  
Friday is Halloween, and her vengeance wouldn’t be complete without the worst decision she makes that week. 

Let it be clear, if it wasn’t already, that she absolutely _detests_ Cormac McLaggen. The problem is that Ron does too, which makes accepting him as her date to the annual Hallow’s Eve Soirée a necessary evil.

She takes one for her own team.

The Great Hall is awash with the orange glow of jack-o-lanterns, all other sources of light dimmed and the sky above dark and stormy. All the tables have been vanished to allow students to mingle and dance, and trays of cider float around on clouds of thick white smoke. 

Hermione’s come prepared. She managed to transform a bottle of Butterbeer into something a great deal stronger the night before, and now she’s using it to generously spike every glass of cider she drinks. 

She hasn’t bothered with a costume — and thank heavens neither has Cormac. She’s in a simple black dress that’s easy to move around in, albeit a great deal shorter than she would’ve ever worn before. 

She wishes she could smell the notes of cinnamon and pumpkin she remembers from the years previous, but all she can smell is Cormac. He reeks like someone set an immense amount of sandalwood on fire, and she finds herself constantly having to put an extra foot between them the entire night just to stave off a migraine. 

But it’s worth it to see Ron’s face redden every time he catches sight of them. Lavender has him dressed as a vampire to match her own ridiculously risqué costume, and she seems to be dancing against him with the sole objective of making him pitch a tent. 

Ron, though — it appears he can’t help glancing towards her and Cormac every other minute — and it’s for this reason and this reason alone that she allows Cormac to lean over and whisper seductively in her ear. Allows herself to smile and giggle like hearing him say, _“Let’s find someplace quiet,”_ is the most endearing thing in the world. 

She doesn’t let him tow her out of the Hall until she’s certain Ron’s eyes are locked on them. But even the obscene amount of alcohol in her system doesn’t excuse what she’s about to do. 

She makes terrible decisions when she’s drunk.

Still, in her defense, Cormac’s face is more of a blur now — and this level of intoxication has her growing numb to his stench. She lets him tow her through several dark corridors, feet tripping over themselves to keep up, flask never far from her lips. 

She laughs at his bad jokes and pretends to be just as wanton as he is when he eventually drags her into a hall free of Prefects. He wastes no time pushing her up against the cold stone and smashing his lips to hers. 

He’s a much too aggressive kisser, she thinks — but what better time to practice her own form? She kisses back, working with angles and testing out tricks with her teeth and tongue. Experimenting. 

Unfortunately, this enthusiasm makes Cormac say a lot of embarrassing things.

 _“Merlin,_ Granger.”

“You really are a naughty one, aren’t you?”

“Do you like it when I—”

Right, that’s enough of that.

She figures she may as well get _something_ out of this, and if that something has the added bonus of making him silent, then all the better for it.

Mustering her strength and screwing up her courage, she pretends he isn’t Cormac Bloody McLaggen for a moment so she can splay her hands out on his stupidly broad shoulders and guide him downward.

His utter delight is so palpable she has to roll her eyes at the opposite wall.

He drops to his knees and starts to gather up the hem of her skirt, laughing under his breath. “Who’d have guessed you were such a—”

“Please stop talking.”

He chuckles again as he takes her knickers down — clearly has no idea how literally she means it. She unstoppers her flask and takes a healthy swig, praying he has even a moderate level of skill when it comes to this.

She’s disappointed.

Because she’s numb. Feels next to nothing as Cormac McLaggen proceeds to go down on her. 

_Viktor did this much better,_ she thinks.

It’s not that he’s _bad_ , per se. It’s that she has absolutely no emotional attachment whatsoever. Not even a physical one, if she’s honest. So while there’s nothing overtly displeasing in the way his tongue traces over her, there’s nothing overtly pleasing about it either.

She’s bored. That’s what it is.

She has to remind herself to moan every now and again. Knows if she doesn’t give him some form of encouragement, he might stop and start speaking again. She shifts against him and exaggerates with a few thrusts of her hips, all the while staring at the ceiling and wishing the night was already over.

At the very least, maybe she can use this against Ron some day. Maybe Cormac’s a gossip.

She tilts her head down for another sip at exactly the wrong moment, and their eyes lock across the corridor.

Her lips part and she gasps. Tenses up, flask slipping out from between her fingers and clattering on the stone floor.

Malfoy is at the other end of the hall. Ten — maybe fifteen meters away. He wasn’t at the party. She’s not sure _where_ he was, but that hardly matters because he’s here now. Staring at her.

Like this.

Her first instinct is to immediately shove Cormac away and drag her skirt back down. She reaches out to do it, eyes wide and horrified. 

But it’s in that same moment that she senses it.

She’s gotten better at differentiating which feelings are her own and which are his, rare as the occasion may be, and this is — this is _his_. This is definitely his.

But how can it be?

 _How?_ How is it possible?

How, when it feels so similar to _want?_

He stands there frozen at the other end of the corridor, just past the corner, caught off guard. Just stands there _watching_ as Cormac McLaggen eats her out — and somehow the only thing she’s feeling from him is this dangerous and thick, all-consuming _ache._

An ache like need. Like something repressed he doesn’t want to let through. 

Like something unspoken.

And whatever it is, it wakes her up to the sensations below her waist. Suddenly, she’s anything but numb. Anything but bored. Cormac’s tongue is abruptly lithe and effective and the next moan that wrenches out of her throat is a real one. Breathy. Instinctive. Accidental.

She can’t take her eyes off of him. And he won’t look away.

Why? _Why_ won’t he look away?

Rivulets of pleasure and heat start to explode across the nerve-endings in her thighs — up along her spine, down into her toes, and Malfoy, he—

He leans back against the wall behind him. 

He settles in to watch.

She chokes on a gasp at the realization, suddenly sober. Awake. Aware. 

And then it’s only the two of them. The two of them exchanging something visceral across this invisible connection — these electrical currents in the air — while Cormac McLaggen does all the work, utterly forgotten. 

Malfoy breathes out slowly. She can _feel_ him do it. Can feel it like the warmth actually whispers across the back of her neck. His eyes are clouded. Heady. She swears it’s his own pulse throbbing in her veins.

And when he bites down on his lower lip and leans his head back, she can’t hold it in any longer. Can’t hold the gates.

The orgasm takes hold and she shatters. Just absolutely shatters. Grasps desperately for the wall behind her and bites her tongue as her legs shake and her blood sings and Malfoy’s rough gasp cuts across the silence. 

Cormac laughs like he’s won some sort of game. 

But it’s not his victory.

No.

Panting, she watches Malfoy drag himself up from his slant against the wall and slip back around the corner, eyes half-lidded and locked on hers until the last possible moment.

She knows exactly whose victory it is. 


	7. Aches / Allies

The moment she wakes up, she knows she’s being punished. 

A laundry list of symptoms — cottonmouth, splitting headache, stomach in knots and blood on the sheets.

Her cycle is early. 

With a groan, she drags herself out of bed, struggling to balance for a moment before she can turn around and vanish the mess. Her skull feels like it weighs ten stone; it’s nearly impossible to keep her eyes open.

At the very least, it’s Saturday. She’ll have the washroom to herself, with the others still asleep — as well as the rest of the day to recover.

The sun pesters her all the way across the dormitory, bright and assaulting. She holds a hand in front of her eyes until she can stagger into the washroom. A shower sounds like a godsend.

She does her best not to think about last night as the hot water washes over her, palms splayed out on the tile wall, forehead pressed against it. She could stay in here for hours. Soaking away the remnants of Cormac McLaggen. 

But her stomach is a battleground — wrenching and twisting. If she wants to have any hope of getting through the day, she’ll need to pay Madam Pomfrey a visit.

She’s probably lucky she didn’t look at herself before scalding away most of the evidence, but even out of the shower, her reflection leaves something to be desired.

Eyes bloodshot, lips chapped and swollen, skin sallow. She behaved like a fool. 

And with Cormac McLaggen, of all bloody people.

_Not just him._

It’s that teasing voice in her head — rotten and sadistic — and she watches her cheeks go bright red in the steam-streaked mirror. 

Cormac isn’t the problem, after all. Not two seconds after she managed to pry him off of her, she made a snap decision and reached for her wand. 

_“Obliviate.”_

If she did it correctly, he’ll have no memory of Halloween night whatsoever. Something he’ll likely chalk up to drinking too much. 

No, he’s not the problem. 

Malfoy — Malfoy is the problem. 

There’s no sense in it. In what happened. None whatsoever. Not only is it utterly absurd that she allowed herself to engage in something so lewd in a public place, but she also did absolutely nothing to stop him from _watching._

And he did watch. For reasons she can’t fathom. 

Because he’s Malfoy, and he’s vile and he thinks _she’s_ vile, and it’s all just —

Lavender’s ridiculous morning yawn sounds from the dormitory. She jerks into motion, yanking off her towel and casting an _Accio_ for clean clothes. She’d rather not speak to anyone this morning, if she can help it.

Least of all Lavender Brown.

* * *

  
Madam Pomfrey, in direct line for sainthood, gives her shoulder a squeeze and supplies her with a generous dose of pain-relieving draught. She has every intention of downing the entire vial in one go and then finding a comfortable spot amongst those massive pumpkins of Hagrid’s to read for the rest of the afternoon. 

Naturally, this plan falls to pieces within minutes. 

She’s only just rounding the corner out of the Hospital Wing when she comes face to face with Malfoy. And her heart would be in her throat were it not for the state of him. 

He looks absolutely haggard.

His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, his eyes wide and rimmed red. The tension in his jaw looks as though it could rival the string of a bow, and his face is pale as death. 

She’s only seen him this bad the day before a full moon. But that’s over a week from now. 

_“Granger,”_ he hisses the moment he sees her. _“This is your fault.”_

If she was expecting him to say anything, it wasn’t that. 

She hasn’t given any thought to how a conversation might go after what happened last night — mostly by way of avoidance — but if she had to, she would’ve pictured something less aggressive.

Utterly confused, she can only stare at him for a moment. But then all at once he doubles over, grunting something foul she can’t quite make out as he clutches his stomach. His features twist, more blood draining from his cheeks even when it doesn’t seem possible. 

“Fucking hell,” he spits, grasping for the wall at his side to steady himself and glaring up at her through a few sweat-soaked strands. “How long is this going to take?”

Hermione blinks vacantly. “How long is…what?”

“He’s just a fucking _Weasley,”_ Malfoy seethes through clenched teeth. “Ugly red hair, simple-minded — he’s not fucking _worth_ this. Not even for you.”

She has absolutely no idea what’s going on. _“What?”_

“The nerve of you,” he continues, brandishing the hand not braced on the wall. “Getting so bloody _wound up_ in your own feelings. So fucking dramatic. _Oh, woe is me. Weasley’s smashed my heart again. Best make myself physically fucking ill!"_

He’s not only offensive, he’s much too loud. Madam Pomfrey is less than a wall away, and with her headache far from gone, it’s simply unacceptable. 

“You’re the one being dramatic,” she demands in a heated whisper. _“Quiet down.”_

“Oh, why don’t you make m—”

She seizes him by the arm before she really thinks about it, turning on her heel and charging down the short flight of stairs that leads to the courtyard at a breakneck pace. Malfoy whinges and curses the whole way, yanking against her grasp straight up to the moment she pulls him behind one of those stone archways that guards the fountain.

“You’re not making any sense!”

Malfoy puts an extra foot between them immediately, face drawn up in disgust as he yanks nonexistent wrinkles out of his shirt. “Don’t ever fucking _manhandle_ me again—”

“What do you mean, _wound up in my feelings?”_ she hisses, glancing sideways to check for onlookers. 

“Don’t pretend you don’t know!”

“I _don’t!”_

Malfoy scoffs and turns away, rubbing roughly at his temples. “Brilliant. Fucking brilliant,” he mutters, almost more to himself than her. “Fucking head’s on fire, fucking stomach’s about to explode, and you’re going to fucking deny it—”

“Oh,” she says abruptly. Suddenly makes sense of it.

By the time he turns back to face her, she’s certain she’s gone candy-apple red. 

“What?” he demands. 

“I — erm…”

_“What?”_

She clears her throat, itching at the back of her neck and glancing away. “It — well, it has nothing to do with Ron. I’ll put it that way.”

Malfoy takes a step forward, casting a shadow over her — blocking out the morning sun. “Care to clarify?” he says in a low voice, teeth gritted with pain.

Idly, she thinks of the chaos the school would collapse into if all the girls were allowed to behave this way once a month.

“Certainly,” she says, squaring her shoulders. A small part of her is embarrassed to say it, but the more she thinks about it, the more the rest of her starts to find the situation somewhat poetic. Poetic and even a bit funny. “I began my cycle this morning. You’re experiencing menstrual cramps.”

Malfoy goes white as a sheet. Reaches out to brace a hand on the fountain archway. _“…What?”_

“Hurts quite a bit, doesn’t it?”

He opens his mouth and closes it again, eyes wide — gaze flitting rapidly back and forth, searching her face as though waiting for the punchline. Praying there is one. 

“They’ll come and go. So will the headaches. And you’ll be in a foul mood the rest of the day — the rest of the week, probably — though I suppose that won’t be abnormal for you.” Hermione flashes him a coy smile. 

_“Granger—”_ he hisses.

“Best ask Madam Pomfrey for some of this.” She pulls the vial of pain-relieving draught from the pocket of her skirt and waves it in front of him. 

“This is — no, this is _obscene—”_

She only scoffs. “You’ll live.”

His hand threads its way into his hair again, sweeping back those sweat-soaked strands. “You're lying,” he insists suddenly, though his tone is more desperate than anything else. “You — you look fine. You’re not even _sick._ This can’t be —”

“What?” Now she’s the one stepping forward, and she’s not sure where exactly the bitterness comes from. Five years of hell, most likely. “Does it bother you that I can handle it better?” 

His nose scrunches up and his lip curls over his teeth — a snarl she’s growing familiar with. _“Fuck_ you,” he spits and then pushes off the archway, shoulder knocking against hers as he makes to leave.

“Are we going to talk about it?”

The scuff of his shoes on the cobblestone is loud in the empty courtyard, and then it’s only the soft sounds of the fountain filling the silence for a moment. 

“About _what?”_ he snaps.

She can’t see him; he’s already stepped past her. They’re back to back now. 

Tilting her head sideways, she speaks over her shoulder. “You know perfectly well what.”

Another impossibly long pause. Then, “There’s nothing to say.”

And a moment later, his footsteps retreat.

She huffs to herself, left standing alone in the courtyard. Of course. He’s going to deny it. She assumed as much, knowing his character. 

Malfoy is nothing if not consistent.

And if she’s right, he has no idea the symbiotic sensations work both ways. Has no idea she’s felt what he feels. So why wouldn’t he deny it? It’s the logical choice. The easy way out. Malfoy always takes the easy way out. 

Still, even if she was expecting it, she can’t really account for the sudden hollow pulse in her gut. Only knows it has nothing to do with the time of the month.

* * *

  
She’s all but given up on the prospect of receiving a response from Professor Lupin.

Perhaps that owl really did drop dead.

Another full moon comes and goes, the November chill making its way over the Grounds. When the transformation occurs this time around, she neither hears nor feels a thing from her dormitory. Doesn’t care to admit to the connotations that come with staying awake well into the early hours of the morning, waiting. Listening. Wondering.

She thinks the Wolfsbane must’ve been more effective. Thinks perhaps that he didn’t transform. Thinks about what it must feel like, to sit there in those chains and wonder when it’ll happen. _If_ it’ll happen.

She imagines it must be torture.

* * *

  
Halfway through the month, just when she’s starting to think she’s no longer sensing anything from him, it feels like a pit suddenly opens up in her stomach. She’s in the middle of Transfiguration, abruptly awash with dread, and when she approaches McGonagall to ask permission to leave, it takes little to no convincing.

“Miss Granger, you’ve gone _gray_. Are you quite alright?”

Hermione clutches at her stomach, feeling her pulse start to race, thudding like a hammer in her ears. “I’m sorry, Professor. I think I might be sick. May I—”

“Of course, yes. Off you go.” McGonagall swishes a hand towards the door. "Mr. Weasley will—” She stops. Thinks better of it. "Mr. Potter will take notes for you."

Hermione leaves quickly. Thinks perhaps she might make a run for the lavatory, in case she really is about to be sick. That or she’ll head to the Hospital Wing. Or maybe just straight to bed. It’s the last class of the day, and she’s in no danger of falling behind.

Except her feet lead her elsewhere. 

She has no idea how it is she finds him. He wasn’t in class and she hasn’t seen him in the corridors since yesterday. And yet somehow, ill as she feels and with nothing but pure, subconscious instinct guiding her, she ends up in front of a very familiar blank stretch of stone.

The Room of Requirement.

For quite some time, nothing happens. She only stands there, staring at it, all the while feeling as though the walls of her stomach are caving in. He must be in there. The sensations grow stronger when they’re in close proximity — she’s put that much together on her own.

But she’d never once have thought they could be used as a guide. A method of tracking. Like a homing beacon. 

The longer she stands there, the more she expects she’ll have to wait around for him to leave. Wait and hope this pain subsides. 

He’s at least a week from a transformation — that can’t be the cause. But whatever’s gone wrong, it’s driving him absolutely mad. On top of the dread, she feels an acute sense of panic. He’s anxious. There’s something he can’t figure out.

 _Fool,_ she thinks. Here she’s offered her help more than once, and Malfoy would rather just curl into himself and stew in it—

Dust rains down from the top of the wall. A gasp falls from her mouth as those intricate iron curls begin to materialize, slowly forming the doorway.

It’s letting her in.

She doesn’t hesitate when the handles appear, pressing a palm flat against the iron and pushing the massive doors apart. 

This version of the room is dark. Seems to completely revolve around the orientation of the windows. The stone ceiling she remembers from the time she spent here in Dumbledore’s Army has been replaced with glass — but the sky that shows through doesn’t match the time of day. 

This is a night sky. Stars shine from above, the glow of a crescent moon the greatest source of illumination. 

Every wall is glass, she realizes. And all she needs to do is breathe in to deduce what he’s created here. 

It’s a greenhouse. 

A very empty greenhouse. The air is humid. Controlled. The glass seems to carefully reflect the moon’s glow down upon a solitary row of flowers in the center of the room. They’re raised off the ground, planted in a long, obsidian box a bit like a trough. A thin sheen of mist falls towards the soil, conjured from above.

It takes a step closer to recognize the flowers. 

Wolfsbane. She’d know that shade of violet anywhere. 

But with a few steps more, she realizes they’re dying. The ends of the petals are shriveled and darkened, their stems limp and drooping.

_“How the fuck did you get in here?”_

His voice is sharp — startles her, erupting from one of the pitch black corners — and yet it’s not so unlike those flowers. Wilted. Torn.

She twists towards the sound, squinting into the dark. Her gut wrenches as her eyes adjust, pulling him into focus. 

He is quite literally curled into himself, sitting tucked against the wall with his elbows on his knees and his head braced in his hands. And she’s suddenly trying to remember the last time she saw him looking well — because he looks utterly wrecked. His blond hair sticks up at all angles — the handiwork of those nervous fingers, no doubt — and his face is gaunt. Lined. Exhausted. At least as well as she can see in the artificial moonlight.

“What happened?” she asks, surprised when her voice echoes back off all the glass.

He lets out a huff that’s more like a hiss. “I asked first.” And now he sounds dull. Empty.

She moves away from the doors. Closer to him, his shape growing clearer amidst the dark. “I’m…not sure,” she says, and it’s the truth. “The doors just appeared for me.”

His head thunks back against the wall. “They shouldn’t do that,” he whispers, as though to no one.

“What happened?” she asks again.

Malfoy thrusts a limp arm in the direction of the flowers. “Use those powers of observation.”

The swell of indignation is brief. She’s able to tamp it down, glancing sideways at the dejected plants and then back at him. “I thought you’d sorted them out.”

Even in the dim light, his glare is fierce. “Evidently not,” he growls, sounding out each syllable like an individual threat.

The sudden urge to roll her eyes is almost uncontrollable. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Malfoy — you’re being a bit dramatic, don’t you think? You said it yourself, the plant is sensitive. I’m sure there’s something—”

Malfoy launches up from the floor in an instant, hands flying out in front of him and clenching into fists. “I swear I could fucking _strangle_ you right now.” He charges forward several steps. “Of all times to play the fucking know-it-all, you choose this moment? What’s the _matter_ with you?”

For almost half a minute, she can’t find it in herself to react beyond a blink. Just watches him standing there, panting — waits for steam to start streaming out of his mouth. 

It’s as good a time as any to throw gas on the flame.

“I suppose it’s my turn to accuse you of getting _wound up in your feelings.”_

Malfoy closes their distance so quickly, she actually thinks he might hit her — albeit for about half a second. 

But he stops a foot away, seemingly content to do little more than glare down at her for a long while. 

Then, all at once, a shadow crosses over his face. She watches him put it together, the pieces connecting behind his eyes.

“How did you find me?” he demands suddenly, voice rough as gravel.

She hesitates. Only for a moment, just to savor that feeling of holding the cards. 

“I felt you.”

Malfoy’s breath hitches.

She tilts her chin up. “I felt your panic.”

 _“How?”_ he snaps, and that nervousness she’s been feeling from him seems to momentarily spike.

“The symbiotic sensations,” she says, careful to keep a neutral tone. “Apparently they work both ways.”

She doesn’t have to say more. She can see him backtracking — tracing his steps and realizing what she knows. It’s evident in the way his furious expression falters. 

In his state, though — she knows it’s not a good idea to push it. She turns away from him abruptly, approaching the flowers at the center of the room. The moonlight slides over her in fragments as she stops in front of the planter’s edge. “When did it happen?”

It takes Malfoy a long time to answer. A long time to collect himself.

“This morning,” he says finally, barely audible.

“Did anything—”

“Nothing changed. Not one bloody thing. Not the temperature. Not the light. Nothing.” He’s at her side before she realizes, and when she glances to the left she finds him glaring at the flowers like he intends to set them ablaze. “They’re _evil,”_ he spits. “And I hate them.”

The sudden ache of sadness she feels she has to stamp out like a flame. Quickly, before he feels it through her.   
She clears her throat. “Perhaps Professor Sprout could—”

 _“No.”_ It’s immediate. “No. Are you out of your _mind?_ If the teachers think I can’t handle this on my own, they’ll take things into their own hands. I had enough trouble convincing Dumbledore to give me space.”

“We have to do something.”

 _“We?”_ His eyes snap to her. “Who the fuck is _we?”_

She can’t help but grit her teeth. “Like it or not, this affects the both of us. And if all you’re going to do is sit here and sulk, then I suppose I’ll have to…” She trails off, realizing it halfway through the sentence. 

Malfoy’s surge of panic is ridiculously intense.

“You’ll what?”

She’s already turned on her heel, heading back towards the doors.

“Granger!” His shout is anxious. “What are you—”

She twists around at the threshold and holds up a hand. “Just trust me, will you? I have an idea.”

_“Trust you?”_

“Yes.”

He opens his mouth but looks as though he can’t think of what to say. And it’s the desperation in his wide-eyed gaze that makes her say it.

“Malfoy — think about it. Why would I do something to hurt you if it’s going to hurt me?”

He stares at her for a moment, then huffs, expression settling into disdain. “What, like drop ice down your shirt?” 

She does roll her eyes now. “Ice is ice, Malfoy. I know which lines aren’t meant to be crossed.” And she yanks the door open. “Wait here.”

For what it’s worth, he doesn’t follow her.

* * *

She spots him leaving Transfiguration with the rest. Has to dodge Harry and Ron’s concern before she can get to him.

“Yes, I’m fine — just fine. Something I ate, I think. Thank you.” 

She smiles and slips past them, speeding up a little so she can reach out and tap him on the shoulder.

“Neville?”

He stops and turns. “Hermione? You alright? Feeling any—”

“Oh, I’m fine, thank you. Better now. I — sorry, could I borrow you for a moment? It’s just, I think Trevor may’ve escaped again.”

Neville’s eyes widen. “Again?” He slumps and sighs. “Right. Yeah.” Waving a haphazard goodbye to Seamus and Dean, he follows her down the corridor and around the corner. “Where did you last—”

“I’m sorry,” she says as soon as they’re out of earshot. “It’s not Trevor. I just — I need your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me: https://www.facebook.com/groups/313342693333861/
> 
> Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0qEW5Eu2D4GyMigMSn87Bz?si=3kas-WH_Q76TYXhL5wkTWA
> 
> Trailer. https://youtu.be/h04tKBC_ggw


	8. Effusion / Deflection

The last thing Neville deserves is a wand in his face, but that’s exactly what he gets. Not half a second after the doors shut behind them.

“—the _fuck_ did you bring him here?”

Neville jerks to a halt, going wide-eyed and stiff. His hands raise from his sides somewhat instinctively.

“No. Don’t put your hands up,” Hermione snaps, stepping in front of him. She tries to reach for Malfoy’s wand but he yanks it out of the way, aiming the tip over her shoulder at Neville again.

“Are you out of your mind? _Longbottom?”_

She steps to the side, blocking him again. “Lower your wand. Now.”

“What’s going on?” asks Neville in a quiet, timid voice. 

_“Lower your wand.”_

“Longbottom?” he demands again. “Of all fucking people?” 

She snatches for his wand once more, this time managing to grasp hold of it and yank it out of his hand. Malfoy gives a startled scoff of disbelief.

“How _dare—”_

“You’re lucky he’s here,” she hisses, tossing his wand off to the side. It clatters to the floor and rolls away into darkness. “Neville is the best Herbology student in the school. Maybe even in the _history_ of the school.”

“Oh…” Neville starts to say from behind her, sounding shy. “Erm…thank you, Hermione—”

“No. Don’t _thank_ her,” growls Malfoy, jabbing a finger at him over her shoulder. “No. No, no. _Leave_. That’s what you should be—”

_“Silencio.”_

Malfoy appears to continue to shout for a moment before his jaw goes slack and his eyes slide to her, flooding with rage as he watches her slip her wand back into the pocket of her skirt. She’s never been good at reading lips, but she’s certain the word _‘fuck’_ is uttered more than once. 

“You can speak again when you realize how grateful you should be.”

Malfoy takes a step towards her. A step that must look aggressive enough, Neville has a gut reaction. He reverses their positions, stepping in front of Hermione again and saying, “Wait. Wait. Stop. I — I don’t want to cause any trouble, okay? I—”

Malfoy makes a very rude gesture.

“That is _it.”_ She steps around Neville yet again, this time to seize Malfoy by the sleeve of his shirt. “Neville, I’m sorry — can you wait here for just a moment? I’m sorry.”

“Erm…yeah. I — yeah.” He turns in a slow semicircle, a little nonplussed as he watches her drag Malfoy towards the doors. She shoves them open and tows Malfoy out into the hallway, waiting for them to seal up behind her before releasing his sleeve.

“You — look at me. _Look at me.”_ She prods him hard in the chest with her finger. “You have two options. That’s it. Two. You either go to Dumbledore, or you accept Neville’s help. You _don’t_ get to sit in there on the floor and brood about your dead plants, because I refuse to be put through that. So decide.” She crosses her arms in front of her, ignoring the rage she knows is his as it simmers to a boil in her stomach. “Quickly.”

Malfoy lets out a rough, audible breath — the only sound he can make — his jaw tightening and his hands balling into fists. 

“Well?”

He appears to fight against whatever muscle makes his lip curl up in that way it does, taking several long, silent seconds to gather deep breaths and blink methodically. Then, just barely — and done in such a halting way it looks as though it causes him physical pain — he nods.

_“Finite.”_

“Fuck you, Gra—”

_“Silencio.”_

She lets him stew in that for another thirty seconds or so, watching his face darken with fury. Then, 

“Care to try again?”

He inhales sharply through the nose. Nods once. 

_“Finite.”_

Malfoy doesn’t immediately speak this time, but he does step in close, all at once becoming a long, looming shadow. She clears her throat and tilts her chin up in answer to the movement, trying not to think about the last time he was this close to her.

“You should take extra care, Granger,” Malfoy says, voice low and dark. “I don’t appreciate being backed into corners.” His eyes glimmer as though he’s just thought of something particularly vicious.

“Unfortunately for you, all your threats are meaningless,” is her response. She works to keep her tone light, even if that look in his eyes unsettles her beyond belief. “We’ve established you can’t hurt me.”

Malfoy huffs at that — a sudden, quiet laugh. “You’re mistaken,” he says, taking that one final step that has the toes of their shoes meeting in the middle. “We’ve established why I _shouldn’t_ hurt you. Never that I can’t.” 

Her breath hitches — she can’t stop it. Not when he reaches out suddenly, placing deft, barely-there fingertips over the flesh of her collarbone. 

“And if you ask me,” he murmurs — a distracted sound now, with his eyes unfocused as he watches the movements of his hand, “we’ve never fully addressed just how much I would _like_ to.”

By the end of the sentence, his fingers have trailed upward, dangerously skimming across the expanse of her throat. 

She doesn’t want to think about why she lets him. He’s saying horrible, ugly things, just as he always does. And yet there’s an ache, someplace low in her stomach. Something raw and uncertain. Something that sends the most reckless, unbidden curiosity flying through her head.

She wonders what it might feel like if he grasped hold.

Malfoy goes rigid, glazed eyes abruptly flooding with panic. He drops his hand — takes a massive step back, and it’s abundantly clear that he felt that unspoken curiosity. That he knows exactly what she would’ve let him do.

He makes a quarter-turn away from her, facing the wall, and for a while neither says a word. 

She hopes he’s as desperate to put the moment behind them as she is, clearing her throat when she can manage it and forcing out, “I trust Neville. Possibly more than anyone.”

And Malfoy seems somehow both relieved and irritated. He scoffs and crosses his arms, glancing sideways at her. 

“I _do,”_ she presses. “He’d never tell anyone. And I haven’t even told him myself. I was going to leave that to you—”

Another scoff, along with a roll of those gray eyes. “As if he hasn’t already made the connection.” He gestures to one side, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh — let’s see. Wolfsbane.” He gestures to the other side. “Wolf. Amazing!” He snaps his fingers, dealing her a savage, plastic sort of grin.

“Neither of us owe you anything,” she bites out. “Especially not after last year.” 

Malfoy’s expression screws up and he makes a sound low in his chest, once again closing a bit of that distance between them to seethe and jab a finger into her face. “Do _not_ bring up last year. _Don’t._ You don’t get to.”

“Then don’t make me.” 

He growls and shakes both hands in front of her face, as though he’s imagining squeezing her head between them. He’s done this twice today. And she forces herself to remain perfectly still — to raise an eyebrow and nothing more. 

“Make a decision, Malfoy.”

“It’s not a decision at all, is it? You’ve forced my hand.”

She smiles sharply. “I’m glad you understand the situation.” 

Eyes narrowing to slits, he backs away — moves towards those iron doors, hissing all the while under his breath, “—you. Why did it have to be _you?_ Can’t fucking _stand_ you...”

“If you’re rude to Neville, that’s the end of it,” she warns.

He shoves the doors apart.

“Amazing…” comes Neville’s voice from within. He’s no longer by the doors, he’s in the middle of the room, leaning over the terrarium. 

Hermione sees Draco’s body jolt, preparing to make a run for it, and she reaches out quickly to snatch his sleeve again, stopping him.

“I can promise you he’s not _hurting_ your plants,” she huffs when he turns to glare at her.

“Amazing...” Neville coos again. Glancing back his way, she finds him delicately adjusting the Wolfsbane’s petals, hands already clad in conjured gloves.

“See?” she says to Malfoy quietly.

“This is an impressive cultivation you’ve got here, Malfoy,” calls Neville excitedly over his shoulder. 

Malfoy appears momentarily stunned, but then she watches his face sink slowly back into disdain. “Impressive? They’re fucking _dying_ , Longbottom. Use your eyes.”

“Malfoy—”

“Oh, no. They’re not dying.” 

“What?”

She and Malfoy say it at the same time, and Neville turns around to face them. “They’re not dying,” he repeats. “They’re in the effusion stage.”

_“Effusion?”_ Malfoy spits the word out like a curse. “There’s nothing about _effusion_ in the texts.”

_“Malfoy—”_

Again, Neville takes his arrogance in stride, unaffected. “It’s not widely known. Most growths of Wolfsbane don’t live long enough to enter the stage at all.”

“Effusion as in…releasing fluid?” Hermione asks. 

Neville nods excitedly, turning back to examine the plants again. “Species composed of toxins do it every few months. Almost like a pressure release. It prevents it from poisoning itself.”

Malfoy sighs and drags his hands tiredly down the expanse of his face. “I fucking hate this plant,” he mutters, then strides off into the room’s dark corner to hunt for his wand. “Go ahead, Longbottom,” comes his bitter voice from the shadows. “Say whatever it is you want to say about my condition. Let’s get it out in the open.”

Neville looks back from the terrarium and meets Hermione’s gaze, confused. She can only offer an apologetic shrug, massaging her temple. 

“I…erm,” he says, going a little red in the face. “I didn’t really think it mattered. It’s not my business.”

Malfoy emerges from the shadows slowly, eyes tight and suspicious. 

“Pretty Gryffindor sentiments,” he scoffs after a long while. “As usual.”

Hermione shakes her head at him. “You really aren’t making a case for yourself.”

“I’m not _trying_ to make a case for myself.”

“I could help,” says Neville, despite it all, faltering a little when Malfoy’s sharp eyes shoot to him. “Just — just with the plants, I mean. If anything goes wrong.”

“And why would _you_ want to help _me?”_ Malfoy spits.

“I…I’d like to study them.” 

Malfoy makes a face — something between disbelief and annoyance, his gaze jutting back towards Hermione. She just raises her brows at him. A challenge.

Long silence ensues, Malfoy’s narrowed eyes bouncing back and forth between her and Neville all the while. Then, teeth bared, and not without a threatening swish of his wand, he grits out, “If _either_ of you do _anything_ to jeopardize me or those fucking plants, I swear to Merlin, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” she demands sharply, unabashed, crossing her arms over her chest and cocking her head to the side.

Malfoy sneers. “Use your imagination.” 

A moment later he storms from the room, tall doors slamming behind him — and she somehow feels he’s acutely aware that he’s getting far better than he deserves.

* * *

_Hermione,_

_I’m sorry to make you wait — I couldn’t risk writing in front of Remus. He and I have never seen eye to eye when it comes to this, and I can only say I’m glad your letter reached me first._

_I want to help you. No one should go through this alone. As a paramour myself, there are things I can tell you that Remus can’t. Important things._

_We should meet in person. Can you get yourself to the Three Broomsticks this Saturday? Evening would be best._

_You did the right thing, reaching out._

_Tonks_

  
A strange, mottled sort of hope fills her as she reads it. She’s torn. Because she’s fairly certain it means Professor Lupin has a negative outlook on paramours. 

And yet, still —

Help is help. And she never really considered the possibility of meeting another paramour.

_You’re not a paramour,_ her subconscious reminds her. _This is all a mistake._

It doesn’t matter either way. She’ll be there.

* * *

  
Tonks is a loud splash of color in the otherwise drab, muted tones of the Three Broomsticks. A couple empty glasses are spread out in front of her, and she’s halfway through the third one when she catches sight of Hermione. Hops out of her seat, smile bright, pink hair brighter.

“Hey, sweetheart — how are you?” She wraps her in a tight hug, smelling like Butterbeer and a bit like Lupin’s old office, from what she remembers.

“Hi, hi. Good to see you. I’m alright, thank you. Thank you so much for coming.”

Tonks kisses both cheeks and gives her chin a squeeze before letting her drop into the seat opposite. 

“Butterbeer?” she offers, signaling the barkeep over her shoulder. 

“Please.” 

They make small talk until it arrives. Discuss classes and Auror missions and the new shade of teal she’s learned how to make her eyelashes. 

But as soon as that weak nip of alcohol gets set down in front of her, Tonks becomes all business. 

“How are you holding up?”

Hermione sips deeply before answering, wiping her lip and shaking her head. “Not — erm, not too well.”

Tonks nods knowingly. “It’s incredibly hard in the beginning. Like phantom pains. No idea where any of it’s coming from.”

“It’s not quite pain, exactly. Not for the most part. It’s — it’s more emotion, somehow. I’m not even sure if I _am_ a paramour, to be honest. I don’t want to call it something it’s not. I could be overreacti—”

“Hermione?” Tonks raises a purple brow. 

She swallows another deep swig, trying not to seem as nervous as she is. “Mm?”

“If you’re feeling anything that doesn’t belong to you, you’re a paramour.” 

A heavy weight sinks into her stomach. Tonks must know, from the way she reaches out and rests a hand over hers. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s not the sort of thing that should happen during your school years.”

_It's not the sort of thing that should happen at all,_ she thinks bitterly to herself.

Still, she squeezes her hand back, going in for another sip but finding the glass empty. “I don’t even know how it happened.”

Tonks signals again for the barkeep. “It’s not always clear. I didn’t know, if that helps. Not when it happened with Remus. Took us weeks to riddle it out."

And once Hermione’s halfway through the second glass, she asks the question she seems to’ve been holding back.

“Who is it? Who was bitten?”

Hermione chews on the inside of her lip, averting her eyes and staring down into her drink. “I swore I wouldn’t say.”

She didn’t. Not explicitly.

But it’s easier this way.

Tonks eyes her carefully for a moment when she looks back up, then seems to swallow whatever her next question might’ve been. Nods. “Right, well,” she says, tone lighter as she twists and starts to rummage through a bag sitting on the bench at her side. “I come bearing gifts.” 

They’re books. Heavy and dense. A stack. 

They look like old friends to Hermione’s slightly tipsy eyes.

“I’m betting the Hogwarts Library isn’t going to tell you anything you don’t already know. These, though — they should help you through. This one especially.” She taps the pale blue cover of the book on top. “All about paramours. Written by one, too.”

She can’t help it. It slips right out, more desperate than she ever intended. 

“Is there any way to stop it? Reverse it?”

A brief flash of sympathy flickers in Tonks' dark eyes. “I understand…why you might want that now. Really, I do.”

“Tonks, I—”

“I _do,_ Hermione. I promise. I know it feels wrong at first. And I know it isn’t fair. But — you have to understand. This is an evolutionary phenomenon. A force of nature. To go against it is—”

“I have to,” she says, words jamming together in her rush. “I have to. It can’t — I can’t be attached to this person. Neither of us want this. I have to try. At least try.” 

Tonks stares at her for a few long seconds. A small, fond smile crosses her lips. “You sound like Remus.”

“But you’re in love with Remus,” Hermione presses, desperately — _desperately_ needing her to understand. “And he loves you. This is different. It’s — it’s _wrong_. It’s so wrong.”

Tonks purses her lips. “I take it you don’t like each other?”

“We _hate_ each other.”

Her sad sigh does little by way of comfort. Even so, she pulls the top two books off the stack to pick up the one bound in burgundy. “Before I show you,” she says, bright pink of her hair fading to a pale, conflicted shade, “I want to make sure you understand that this should be an absolute last resort. For the worst case scenario only. Please — promise me you’ll try to work through it with whoever it is first.”

“I promise.”

* * *

  
Promises are made to be broken.

That’s the way she sees it. But even then, she isn’t breaking her promise. She firmly believes, with every fiber of her being, that this is already the worst case scenario.

By the time she gets back from the Three Broomsticks, it’s half past midnight. Tonks left her with another kiss on the cheek and a private address. 

_“Write me anytime.”_

Logically, she should rest. Think. Deal with it come morning.

But she doesn’t want to wait. 

And she sits against the wall in that corridor leading to the Room of Requirement for at least thirty minutes, trying to think of the best way to wake him. At the very least, it’s enough time to sober up from the faint effects of the Butterbeer. She needs to be completely lucid.

Her best idea is a simple one. So simple, she’s not certain it will work.

Burgundy tome clutched in her lap, she fixes her eyes on the opposite wall, inhales deeply and holds her breath.

The first several times, her lungs give out after about forty seconds, and by her sixth or seventh attempt, she’s lightheaded, heart thudding in her chest.

It’s entirely possible that Malfoy feels none of it. That she can’t manifest sensation in him. That he’s sleeping soundly somewhere down in the Dungeons, oblivious—

She doesn’t expect him to round the corner at such a breakneck pace. He’s dressed haphazardly — like he threw on the first things in sight — shoes unlaced and blond hair askew, his face all flushed.

It’s surprising enough that she’s managed to wake him. More surprising still is the way he comes at her. His hands find both her arms before she’s even fully let that last deep breath out.

Her head swims a little at the rush of oxygen. Or maybe it’s the way he yanks her to her feet. 

“What are you doing? What are you _doing?”_ he demands, giving her a rough shake. “Are you — are you hurt? Are you sick?” His palm flattens against her forehead suddenly, and she’s so shocked by the movement that it takes her a while to manage a response. 

“I…I was just trying to wake you up.”

Malfoy goes very still as the words register, that one hand still pressed to her head. He yanks it away a moment later, grip on her arm tightening. “Are you _mad?”_

“Did you just…check my temperature?”

“Are you _out of your mind?!”_ He takes her other arm in hand and shakes her again. “What were you trying to do? _Suffocate_ the both of us?”

“I needed to get you out of bed.”

_“Why?”_ It’s the roughest shake yet, and the back of her head strikes the wall unexpectedly. “Fuck!” Malfoy winces. “Fuck. Merlin, I’m sor—” He cuts himself off abruptly, releasing her and backing away. Rubbing compulsively at the back of his head. “What? What was so important? _Fucking_ hell. I thought I was going into cardiac arrest.”

She’s fairly certain he almost just apologized, and a part of her desperately wants to press him about it, if only to watch him squirm. 

Instead she takes a moment to massage the back of her own head, then bends to pick up the book he made her drop. 

“I may have found a way to stop it.”

“Stop what?”

She gives him a look as she straightens up — one she hopes conveys the ridiculousness of the question. 

Malfoy narrows his eyes. 

“Look,” she says, flipping to the page she dog-eared and twisting to stand next to him. “It’s a ritual. One that might be able to reverse the process.”

“Where did you get this?”

“Does it really matter?” she asks, frustrated. Chooses to lie if only to move forward more quickly. “The Restricted Section, alright? That’s hardly the point. If we perform this soon enough, we could undo it. All of it. Unseat me as your paramour, in a sense.”

Malfoy takes the book out of her hands without asking, turning his back to her so she can’t read it while he does.

_“Malfoy.”_

“How do we know if this book is even legitimate?”

She scoffs loudly. “I’m not an idiot.”

He glances over his shoulder, eyebrow raised at an infuriating angle. She grits her teeth — thinks better of it and bites down hard on her own tongue.

Malfoy jerks and almost drops the book. _“Fuck!_ What’s the matter with you?” He rolls his tongue around in his mouth, grimacing. “Fucking _lunatic.”_

“I’ll miss being able to do that if we can actually get this right. But the sooner we do it, the better chance we have.”

His glare lingers on her a moment longer before he looks back to the text. He starts to pace the corridor, reading through it, brows furrowed. 

“I don’t need you to _approve_ it, Malfoy. I already checked everything. It’s legitimate.”

“Yes, but your opinion of what’s legitimate doesn’t count for much, now does it?”

She wonders if she can bite her tongue in the exact same spot twice, but Malfoy speaks again before she can attempt it.

“Do we even have all these things? Black candles and cyclamen? An obsidian blade?”

She gestures to the doors of the Room of Requirement. 

“Everything’s ready. All we’re waiting for is you.”

Malfoy meets her eyes, haughty and arrogant. “I’m ready when you are, then. Let’s get this over with.”

She’s not sure if that’s uncertainty she sees flicker in his eyes. Or just a trick of the light.

* * *

  
“You have to unbutton your shirt,” she says, trying to focus intently on the cyclamen she’s grinding up.

They sit across from one another on the floor of the Room of Requirement, encircled by the lines of the Dividing Rune she’s drawn in white chalk. 

“Why?” demands Malfoy, indignant as he lights the candles with his wand.

She doesn’t bother to check her tone. Doesn’t hide the roll of her eyes. “Because the Runes have to be drawn on your chest.” 

“So, what — you’re going to strip too, then?”

Her eyes flit to him, sharp and hopefully full of warning. _“Your_ Runes go on _your_ chest. _My_ Runes go on _my_ face. Did you even actually _read_ it?”

“I skimmed,” he says plainly, then proceeds to lean forward on his hands so he can watch her do all the work. “By the way, Granger — I’ve been meaning to ask. Why the sudden change?”

“Change?” she echoes, voice clipped as she reaches for the knife. 

“Yes. Why start dressing like a whore?” 

She chokes on her own breath, pinning him with wide eyes. _“Excuse me?”_

“Was it for Weaselby?” 

Her jaw tightens, and she makes quick work of the incision across her palm, the slice a brief, painful distraction. She squeezes that palm into a fist, letting the blood drip down into the bowl of cyclamen. “So that’s the way of it, then?” she asks tightly. “When I start dressing well, it makes me a whore. But Parkinson? Lavender? Penelope Clearwater? Not them?” 

Malfoy only smiles — a dark, malicious sort of smile. “Precisely.”

She mends the wound with a flick of her wand, cleaning the blood from her skin and then reaching out for him. “Give me your hand.” 

“I don’t want _you_ to do it.” 

She snatches hold of his wrist too quickly though, dragging his hand towards her and making a vengefully messy incision with the knife before he can yank it away. It doesn’t matter that the sting of it burns across her own palm too. It’s worth it.

_“OW!_ Merlin, Granger — that was way fucking deeper than yours!”

She ignores him, reaching for the bowl and holding it out beneath his dripping hand. “As I recall,” she says mildly, “you walked face first into a door when you saw me.”

“I _tripped.”_

She nods. “Yes, right. Of course you did. Mend your wound. I’m not doing it for you.”

Malfoy scrunches up his nose at her, taking back the abused hand and cradling it like she set it ablaze. He heals the cut with wandless magic, and she’d be infinitely more impressed by that if he weren’t such a prick. 

“Now unbutton your shirt.”

“Ask nicely.”

“No.” She reaches for the candles, starting to arrange them in the triangular formation the book depicts. “Do you know, from the way you’re behaving, it seems almost as though you don’t _want_ to go through with this.”

Malfoy sits up straight, going rigid and casting her a venomous look. “I want to be rid of you more than anything. And you know it.” He reaches for the collar of his shirt, aggressively freeing the top four buttons. “Now what?” he demands. 

She takes the bowl in hand, casting a spell to mix their blood with the crushed cyclamen. “Now I draw the Dividing Rune on you. And then you on me.”

He appears to put serious effort into looking disgusted, but he still leans forward when she dips her fingers into the bowl and reaches for him.

The skin of his chest is pale and smooth. She has to pull the fabric of his shirt out of the way with her other hand to keep from staining it, trying to draw the symbol as quickly and accurately as possible. Malfoy, for his part, stays very still. Almost like he’s holding his breath.

Maybe he is.

“There,” she says, sitting back on her heels when finished. “Now you.”

Malfoy makes that same overly-disgusted expression when he runs his fingers through the blood mixture, crawling forward a few inches on his knees and reaching out. “Move your hair.”

She sweeps it back off her forehead, trying not to jump when his cold fingertips meet her skin. “Careful with those slash marks. Make sure they’re precise.”

“I know what I’m doing, Granger.”

“You’ve never done this before.”

“Well, neither have you!” he hisses. “Bloody hell. Tilt your chin up.” And he draws his fingers down across her jaw, over her chin and up the other side. 

“How does it look?”

“Ridiculous.”

She rolls her eyes and pulls away at the same time he does.

“Now what?” he demands again, rather like a child.

“Now we grab hands — and heaven help me, if you don’t _wipe that look off your face._ We’re doing this to help you.”

“I wouldn’t be here otherwise.” He thrusts out his arm like he’s condemning it to death.

She grits her teeth and meets him in the middle, interlocking their fingers. Malfoy hisses out a breath like it hurts, but she’d know if it did and it certainly doesn’t. “Focus,” she commands. “This is the part we can’t mess up.” 

“I _am_ focused.”

“Repeat after me. _Conteram seorsum.”_

_“Conteram seorsum.”_ His Latin is flawless. She should’ve expected nothing less. 

“We say it three times once the Runes start to glow, and while we say it, I trail the wax over our arms and we slide our hands up towards each other’s elbows. Does that make sense?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m not a fucking idiot, Granger.”

She narrows her eyes at him, lifting the center candle and spitting out, _“Incipere.”_

The Rune surrounding them on the floor glows a deep blue, and the Runes on their skin illuminate in tandem, shining as though beneath a blacklight.

_“Conteram seorsum,”_ they say in unison, and as their palms slide apart, finding each other’s wrists, she begins to drip the hot wax of the black candle over them. 

It’s only wax.

And they’ve only said it once.

But the moment that black, viscous liquid meets their skin, Malfoy cries out. Not in the way he did when she cut his palm. Not for show.

It’s a horrible, agonized cry, and it startles her so much that her hand falters, splashing more wax down over their arms.

Malfoy jerks like he’s been stabbed, screaming and writhing and trying to yank free of her grip. _“Stop! Make it stop!”_ The Runes around them glow red in an instant, washing them out in the color of blood. She feels agony, suddenly. Ripping, bottomless, inconceivable agony that’s not her own. 

And all at once he knocks the candle out of her grip with his free hand. 

The ritual disbands. The glow of the Runes dies off.

Malfoy scrambles to his feet like the floor is white hot, tears glistening in his eyes and pain strewn across his face. “We—” he pants, voice in shreds. “We’re never trying that again. _Never_. Never.”

And he keeps repeating that word, all the way to the door, clutching his chest where the Rune is drawn like it’s burning him. 

_“Never._ _Never, never, never.”_

The doors fall shut behind him. 

* * *

  
_Deflection  
_

That’s what the book calls it. She finds the term several pages after the ritual, in a section devoted to side effects.

_A refusal to disband. Occurs when one half of the symbiotic connection is too entwined with the other to reverse its effects. Pain is inflicted to prevent the completion of the ritual which would, in this instance, inevitably result in death._


	9. Fractures / Fragments

It’s not that she’s refusing to read it. 

Or, well — perhaps she is. She tells herself she wants to make her way through the more scientific texts first. Though, if she’s honest, she feels a fairly overwhelming sense of dread every time she looks at that pale blue cover. 

A book written by a paramour isn’t likely to contain the best advice when it comes to undoing it.

But that’s just it.

With each passing day, it feels more and more as if there _is_ no undoing it. 

Malfoy’s reaction to the ritual keeps replaying itself in her head like some dark, tireless omen. Never in a million years would she’ve expected it to backfire so ferociously. Not when there’s nothing to hold them together. Not when he is the very antithesis of her. Not when she is built out of everything he hates. 

They should’ve split apart as easily as glass shatters. Should’ve snapped clean, like a bone. 

This isn’t clean. This is a compound fracture. 

And, for perhaps the first time in her life, she hates that all she can do is read.

  
_Known Anomalies, continued:_

_Dedicated nocturnal scholars have come across certain lycanthropic subjects who undergo a process called ‘bisection.’ This occurs when a mental rift has formed between the portion of the subject which is human and that which is wolf. A subject who aggressively attempts to resist lycanthropic instincts, particularly when a transformation is near, can ‘bisect’ — or shift into a consciousness very unlike their own. Loved ones and acquaintances of these subjects describe coming into contact with massively altered personalities and foreign mannerisms. Some even compare it to interacting with a stranger._

_These bisections occur when the subject is still in human form, often closer to the full moon. Certain experts suggest avoiding all interaction with a bisect, believing it to be dangerous. Others suggest bisection is merely a coping mechanism — a way to safely prepare one’s consciousness for transformation. They believe these bisects to be relatively harmless when compared to other side effects of the lycanthropic condition._

  
She’s far from sure what this entry is really describing.

Still — she bookmarks it.

* * *

  
Neville is trying to explain something to her about the medicinal properties of Wolfsbane when the sharp pain explodes across her gut. 

At first, she only stumbles. Gives a short cough and covers it up by clearing her throat, working to retrain her focus. They’re on their way to the Great Hall for the lunch break between classes. Neville leans closer to show her the sketch of Malfoy’s terrarium he’s done. It’s an impressive likeness. She opens her mouth to tell him so—

Something hits her full on in the face with the force of a battering ram, and she’s knocked clean off her feet.   
“Hermione! Hermione, are you okay?” 

Neville swims into view above her, a little fuzzy thanks to the way the back of her skull smacked the flagstone — but that pain is nothing compared to the throbbing ache in her cheekbone. 

“What happened? Are you — you hit your head, are you okay?” He grabs her by both elbows, helping her up off her back.

“I…I’m fine, I think. I — I tripped,” she fumbles lamely, clasping for his offered hand to get to her feet. A few other students in the corridor are looking on, confused. Millicent Bulstrode giggles into her palm. 

“Are you sure?” Neville searches her face.   
  
“Yeah. Yes, I’m—”

The pain hits again, sharp and out of nowhere, this time just beneath her ribs. She doubles over, nearly collapsing against him with a choked gasp.

_“Hermione—”_

It’s in that same instant that the sound starts to echo through the hallway, faint at first but slowly growing clearer. A chant most school walls are all too familiar with.

_“Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!”_

And her knuckles suddenly burn, hand spasming into a fist where it’s wedged against Neville, still holding her up. 

_No. Oh, no._

She forces herself to straighten up, grasping Neville’s arm for support.

“What’s going on?”

But she can’t explain. Can only stumble forward, rushing towards the sound, arm belted around her stomach. Neville hurries to keep up, quick to steady her when another phantom blow to the gut knocks her breath away. 

_“Fight! Fight! Fight!”_

They round the corner, and Hermione breaks free of Neville, grasping the wall in his place and watching the next strike as it happens. 

Well. 

Now she knows what it feels like to be punched in the face by Theodore Nott. 

She sees stars. Her hand flies to her mouth, pressing hard where the pain explodes — where the blood should be — vision going for a spin and taking a while to refocus.

A small crowd of students has gathered around the commotion, mostly Fourth and Fifth Years from a myriad of Houses — and they’re chanting that damnable word over and over again. She can only stare over their shoulders, watching Nott and Malfoy land blow after blow.

At the moment, it looks as though Malfoy’s losing. Certainly feels like it. 

Nott is on top of him — has him pinned to the stone floor, elbow jabbing into his collarbone. The sharp pressure of it has her throat closing up. But it’s that fist more than anything, just slamming into his face — again and again and _again._

At this rate, she might pass out before he does.

Students holler and groan with each collision, egging them on. Malfoy coughs blood up into Nott’s face, spluttering out, “F-Fuck you,” in a drunken sort of voice. 

“Get a Professor,” she blurts to Neville, thinking her voice doesn’t sound so different. “Please. Hurry.” 

“I — okay. Okay.” He hesitates only a moment before disappearing from her side.

The jab of Nott’s elbow eases off in the next instant, only for him to sit up and drag Malfoy with him by the shirt collar, lifting his back from the ground. “Say it again,” he spits, giving Malfoy a rough jerk as his fist aims to strike again. _“Say that shit again!”_

It looks like Malfoy might not be capable of saying anything, the way he’s gone lax in the other boy’s hold, blood seeping from his nose and out the corner of his mouth. But his eyes aren’t quite shut, and at the angle Nott holds him now, his gaze slips sideways and lands on hers.

The look in his eyes says he forgot all about it. The way they pop wide and come to life, brows meeting in the middle as he takes in her slumped posture against the wall — the hand she has pressed to her mouth. 

Something shifts. 

It happens so quickly, she almost doesn’t catch it. One moment Nott has the upper hand, and the next he’s flat on his back and her knuckles are burning. Malfoy reverses their positions like he’s caught the most intense second wind imaginable, and suddenly Nott is the one getting beaten to a pulp. 

Her hand falls from her face to cradle the right one against her chest, warding off the growing ache as Malfoy lays into him, fist cracking across his cheek more times than she can count. 

“Stop! _Stop!”_ she cries out, at first not even realizing she’s the one who says it. _“Enough!”_

A few heads swivel to stare at her, expressions like she’s spoiled their fun. 

But Malfoy’s next punch doesn’t follow through, and instead he lets Nott drop from his grip, barely conscious. “Yeah,” he huffs, spitting blood out onto the stone next to him and lurching to his feet. “Enough.”

He’s quicker than she is, all things considered. He shoves his way out of the crowd and slips through the side entrance to the courtyard before she even manages to push off of the wall. This time, though — well, she really doesn’t care how obvious her pursuit is. 

She steps gingerly past the crumpled form of Nott and tails him out into the courtyard, jaw still aching, ribs still tender. 

Malfoy doesn’t turn around. Not as she follows him all the way across the bridge and down past the stone circle, even when she’s sure he hears her footsteps. Not when she picks up her pace to try to match his stride as he veers off to the right, towards the tree line. 

Their shoes crunch in the frozen grass, breath rising in front of them in steaming clouds every few seconds. 

“How far are you planning to go?” she demands at last, gathering the thin cardigan of her uniform in tight around her. 

Malfoy’s even pace falters, but he doesn't stop, chin jutting slightly to the side to say, “That depends. How far are you planning to follow?” 

She can see the dark bruises slowly developing across the plane of his face from that angle. The sight stops her short.

He must hear her feet scuff in the grass — continues about three more steps before he stops too, turning to face her just at the edge of the tree line. “What do you want, Granger?” he huffs. “I’d prefer to walk this one off in peace.”

She breathes in and out in silence for a moment, arms crossed in front of her, both to keep the heat in and the pain at bay. “You’re not the only one walking it off — in case you forgot.” 

Malfoy’s expression flickers. Just slightly. And the snark in his tone sounds forced when he manages to respond. “Think I did worse than you, yeah?” He gestures to his blood-spattered face. 

“I don’t know about that.” She lifts her chin, but the movement makes her wince, ache in her jaw returning full force. She sucks the air in through her teeth. Murmurs, “He punches hard,” as an afterthought, massaging the expanse just beneath her ear. 

“He didn’t know he was punching _you.”_ Malfoy spins back around, taking a couple more steps towards the tree line and collapsing down on a large rock. 

“You’re defending him?”

He scoffs, letting his head hang down and rubbing the back of his neck. “Hardly.”

“What…” she takes a curious step toward him, not wanting to upset whatever precarious sort of balance this is. They rarely manage to have a normal conversation. She'll take what fragments she can get. “What were you fighting about?” 

“Not really any of your business, is it?”

“Well.” The next step toward him is indignant. “Seeing as I got punched in the face for it, I think it’s only fair. Don’t you?”

Malfoy lifts his head, hand dropping out from around his neck to rest limply over his knee. The knuckles are split open, stained a brilliant red like they’ve been smudged with lipstick. He flexes his fingers, sending fresh blood rushing to the surface. “I punched him first.”

Faint echoes of that livid sting scamper across the nerve endings in her own hand, and she heaves a sigh, closing the last bit of distance.   
“Give me that,” she says, holding out her hand for his.

Malfoy leans back a little, looking confused and suspicious to an extent that’s almost ridiculous. 

She scoffs, making no effort to hide the roll of her eyes. Her fingers jolt at him expectantly. “My hand hurts too. Give me yours.”

Malfoy’s gaze twitches, eyes narrowing a fraction even as he slowly lifts his arm to set his palm down in hers. His skin is cold — slightly rough with dried blood. A little jolt whispers through her at the contact, gliding up the length of her arm.

Evidently, they’re both content to pretend they don’t feel it. 

“Why did you punch him?” she asks, taking out her wand.

Malfoy’s silent for a long time — watches as she casts the first of the healing charms, sealing the skin on the knuckle of his index finger. 

“He made a comment about my father.”

His tone makes it clear she’s not getting any further details. 

“And?”

“And I didn’t like it,” he says. A hiss. 

She glides her wand across the middle knuckles, trying not to let her eyes follow the veins lining the top of his hand as they tense and shift. 

“So you punched him?”

“No. I made a comment about his mother.” 

The next swish of her wand falters a bit. “Isn’t his mother—”

“Dead. Yeah. I'm aware, Granger.” 

She clears her throat, quickly moving on to the last knuckle.

“Which is probably why he decided to bring up _my_ mother.” He flexes the newly healed digits in her grip, twisting to offer up his still-bleeding thumb. “And that’s when I punched him.”

“So it was your fault.”

He scoffs again. “Maybe if you see the world in black and white, yeah.” 

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t put my face through that again,” she murmurs, guiding the tip of her wand along the abused tendon leading up to his wrist. Her gaze stutters then, flickering across the skin faintly exposed beneath the cuff of his sleeve. “Rather selfish of you,” she says, and now her voice sounds distracted, and she doesn’t even notice she’s lifting the edge of his sleeve with her wand until the fading bruise on his wrist comes into full view. The one she knows has nothing to do with Theodore Nott.

Without thinking, she lets the hand propping his up slip down and around, grazing the darkened flesh.

Malfoy yanks away the moment he realizes.

She clears her throat again, straightening up a little and brushing a stray curl out of her face. Playing oblivious. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he tells her, in a voice that says he won’t. 

Suddenly, looking into his tired eyes, she wants to bring up the ritual. Wants to ask—

“How hurt are you?”

His question wipes her mind clean like a slate. There’s no affection to it. No kindness in his tone. No overt concern. 

And yet, the way he’s looking at her — head slightly cocked, eyes tracing her features — it’s as though he’s searching for evidence.

She shakes her head, glancing sideways. Away. “I’m — no. I’m fine. It’s fading. I’ll be fine.” 

But when a long silence follows, she’s forced to look back. His face hasn’t changed. Gaze hasn’t moved. 

She bites her lip, rubbing warmth back into her arms to give her hands something to do. “I could…” she trails off, eyes drawn to the smears of blood beneath his nose and mouth, “I could heal your face, too. If — if you want.”

Malfoy doesn’t say anything in response to that. Just juts up one solitary, blond eyebrow and leans back slightly against the rock, bracing himself with his palms. 

It’s not a _‘no.’_

Carefully, she steps up to the edge of the rock, raising her wand again and slowly reaching out for his face. He tilts his chin up for her, still wearing that guarded look, but when the edge of her palm gently slides beneath the line of his jaw, it fades into something a great deal more uncertain. She guides his chin up a little further, tilting his head back to better align her wand at his lips. 

She’s grateful for the violently bright color of the blood. It gives her something to focus on. Something that’s not his eyes, locked on hers. 

She heals the split in his lower lip. Soothes the swelling, casting numbing charms and feeling the tension in her own jaw relax a bit. Malfoy breathes out slowly while she works — like he’s trying to be careful about it. 

When she tilts his head sideways to attend to the bruises on his cheekbone — the slowly forming black eye — meeting his gaze becomes unavoidable.

The question is there. Plain across his face. She’s just the one who says it out loud.

“What are we going to do?”

He blinks, gaze flitting down and then back to her again.

“I don’t know.”

She steps back then. 

Steps back even though she isn’t finished. Even though his nose is still bleeding, his jaw still bruised. Steps back because something in her wanted to step closer. Lean closer. Lean _in._

And the look in his eyes says he knows that.

“You —” She clears her suddenly dry throat. “You should apologize to Nott.” 

He leans forward, dropping his elbows onto his knees — watching her like he’s studying her. Trying to riddle her out.

“I won’t,” he says.

She nods. “I know.” And after a few more steps backwards, she manages to turn around, pocketing her wand and heading back up the hill towards the castle.

It takes a surprising amount of restraint not to look back.


	10. Give / Take

_Dear Tonks,_

_Thank you so much for meeting with me and for the books you lent. I’ve been making my way through them over the past week and it’s been eye-opening, to say the least._

_I wanted to write you because I’ve come across something — experienced something, rather — that I’ve yet to read about._

_The symbiotic sensations I know and understand, but I was wondering if you ever heard thoughts that weren’t your own? Perhaps not thoughts, but words and fragments that seem to come from nowhere?_

_I’m a bit concerned. Anything you might know would be immensely helpful._

_Thank you, and please give my best to Remus._

_Hermione_

  
She sends it first thing in the morning, because it’s kept her up all night. Something that started an hour — possibly two? — after midnight.

A voice in her head.

By now, she’s stopped holding out hope for coincidence, because she knows the difference between her own wayward thoughts and something _else_. Something foreign. An intruder. 

The first time she hears it, she springs up off her back like she’s been hit with an electric shock, certain that it’s come from right beside her. That there’s someone there with her, hidden in the shadows of her bed curtains. 

_“Homenum Revelio,”_ she forces out in a cut whisper the moment she finds her wand.

The spell reveals nothing.

But she knows what she heard. A clear voice. A word — carved out and vivid amongst the nebulous array of her own thoughts. 

_Take._

Just that. One single, unmistakable syllable. 

_Take._

The voice that utters it is nothing like hers. Its timbre is deep and rough, and she’s forced to consider it might be Malfoy.

And yet, she’s fairly certain she knows the sound of his voice — and this? This isn’t it. 

_Take,_ it says, all night long. Every time she closes her eyes. _Take. Take._

Take what?

_Take._

By morning, she’s heard the word so many times it no longer feels like a word at all. Just white noise. 

There are bags under her eyes and tangles in her hair she can’t seem to work a brush through. Her neck aches. Her feet drag as she makes her way down to breakfast.

Every ounce of her wants to just lay her head down on the table and fall asleep to the familiar sounds of Gryffindor morning conversation. Trouble is, by the time she drags herself onto the bench and reaches for the teapot, a conversation is already underway. 

“I think he’s going to the Room of Requirement,” says Harry, voice hushed. He’s talking to Ron, who seems to have somehow temporarily extricated himself from Lavender’s clutches. 

“What makes you think—”

“The map.” Harry taps the side of his book bag on the bench next to him. “He keeps disappearing into thin air in that corridor. It’s the only explanation.”

A steady panic boils into a simmer in Hermione’s stomach. “Who keeps disappearing?” she asks, working to keep her tone mild. 

Harry glances at her, then juts his chin towards the Slytherin table. “Malfoy.” 

“Oh?” She diverts her gaze to her tea in favor of looking. Swallows thickly. Nowhere in her scrambled brain did she leave room for the harsh reality of the Marauder’s Map, and she’s suddenly realizing who else Harry might notice, wandering where she shouldn’t be. 

Following who she shouldn’t be. 

And the panic has her desperately coughing up an excuse. “He might just be going there to study. You know, without distractions. I’ve done that before.”

Three sets of eyes lock on her, Ron’s and Harry’s puzzled, and Neville’s — from the side, where he hadn’t appeared to be listening. He flashes her a nervous expression before quickly going back to trimming his bonsai, the picture of innocence. 

“What?” she demands, straightening her back and trying to sound defensive — though not _too_ defensive. “It’s just a thought.”

“I don’t think Malfoy’s skulking off every afternoon to _study_ , Hermione,” Ron snorts, and all it does is abruptly remind her how furious she is with him. She makes a point of ignoring him, examining her tea leaves instead. 

“I think he’s practicing dark magic,” says Harry. “I’m almost sure of it.” 

She runs a hand through her wayward curls, surreptitiously massaging the ache in her temple as she does it, and her eyes accidentally flit across the Hall.

Malfoy’s hunched over his own cup of tea, looking possibly more exhausted than she does. And she knows even before he takes a sip that there’s Wolfsbane in it. Even before his eyes squeeze shut and his face tenses up. 

Tonight’s the full moon. 

But it isn’t the thought of this that holds her gaze. It’s the boy sitting next to him — the one she’s only just noticed. The one who’s got his eyes trained on that same teacup.

He’s a year above them. She knows that much. And she rakes her memory until the name Adrian floats to the forefront. Adrian Pucey. Vaguely, she remembers he used to play on the Slytherin Quidditch team. A tall, thin shadow, always standing in the back, dirty blond hair constantly hanging in his eyes.

Up until now, she’s never seen him anywhere near Malfoy. But from the way he stares at that teacup — from the way he leans over and says something under his breath that makes Malfoy nod — it’s clear there’s some connection she doesn’t know about.

And then, suddenly, Malfoy says something back and Adrian looks up. Looks directly at her. 

She glances away quickly, scrambling to focus on her plate and hide her surprise. 

Even Neville doesn’t know about the bond. It’s likely he suspects, but he’s far too polite to ask. He’s made every effort to keep his attention solely on the plants. 

Up until now, it’s been between herself and Malfoy. 

And yet, from the look she just got, it would appear Adrian Pucey makes three. 

* * *

  
Friday evenings are always lively and warm in Gryffindor. 

Seamus and Dean will usually break out whatever Weasley products they have left on hand, ultimately culminating in chaos and a trip to the Hospital Wing for an unlucky someone. But the atmosphere is cozy, and she likes to tuck herself away in one of the corner sofas to read amongst the revelry, every now and again setting the book down to watch Harry and Ron play Wizard’s Chess. 

She’s trying to do that now — trying to let the warmth of the fireplace at her side relax the tension in her body. Trying to watch the game, despite Lavender’s highly unnecessary cheerleading on Ron’s behalf. But she’s been itchy and uncomfortable all day, wondering about that voice she hasn’t heard since this morning and feeling on edge. 

And just now, as she’s thinking of going to bed — thinking it might’ve been a one-time occurrence, a fluke — it decides to make a reappearance.

From nowhere, it crawls its way out of the back of her mind. A deep hum. A purr. 

_Come._

She jumps where she sits and drops her book. Harry’s head snaps to the side. 

“Alright?” he asks.

She nods quickly. Blurts out, “A spark from the fire. Hit my arm, that’s all.” And she rubs at the false spot above her wrist. 

Harry’s answering nod gets interrupted when Ron suddenly takes his bishop.

“How?” he demands.

“You were too busy watching your rook.” 

“No! How did you get _there?_ Your pawn was on the other side of the board!”

“No it wasn’t!”

Their voices fade away to background noise and the warmth of the room slips out of focus.

_Come,_ the dark voice says again, insistent. 

Her hand balls into a tense fist on the sofa’s armrest. Not a fluke, then.

_Come,_ it demands, so sharply she almost jumps again. 

She hasn’t tried to respond. Doesn’t want to, and yet she feels almost certain this won’t stop until she does. 

Fingernails digging into the upholstery, she murmurs under her breath, “Come where?”

The voice is almost joyous when it speaks again — elated. 

_Yes. Come._

“Where?” she breathes. 

_Find,_ it hisses. _Come. Find._

Slowly, she gets to her feet.

* * *

  
The Hogwarts Grounds are frozen over, her breath steaming in front of her when she steps out onto the grass from the bridge. She had to dodge several Prefects on the way out, and all the while that voice in her head kept encouraging her.

_Yes. Come. Find._

She realizes she should’ve brought a coat, but she had no idea this sensation — the same gravitational pull that led her to the Room of Requirement that day — would take her outside of the castle. She lets her hands slip inside the sleeves of her jumper and gathers her arms in tight about herself, not certain where she’s going until she reaches the bottom of the hill. The entrance to Hogsmeade. 

She stops to gather a steadying breath, realizing what she’s really doing. What she’s about to do. Her gaze slips sideways and up, finding the bright glow of the full moon, a pale smear of white amongst the sparse clouds in the dark sky. 

_Come,_ commands the voice suddenly, as though it senses her trepidation. 

Alarm bells are ringing inside her head, telling her this is dangerous. Wrong. A step across the line. But that voice does all it can to drown them out.

_Find. Come. Find._

And all of a sudden it says a word it hasn’t before, in a tone it’s never used. 

_Please._

The sound is anxious. Suddenly ragged and weak, and for a fraction of a second she thinks it sounds like Malfoy.

She steps across the border into Hogsmeade. 

_Yes_ , urges the voice, back to its usual purr, and she can’t help but wonder if it’s guiding her towards disaster. Has to accept the possibility. The _probability_. 

The streets of the village are nearly empty, all of the crowds drawn indoors by the cold. She can see their shadows passing back and forth behind warmly lit windows, and every time she glances back at her path straight ahead, it seems darker. 

Her shoes crunch in the thin layer of snow, her face flushed and fingers numb. She considers casting a warming charm, but that would require letting go of the faint warmth she has gathered against her body to reach for her wand.

All at once, the Shrieking Shack comes into view, high up on the hill at the edge of the village. She stops again at the sight of it, another prickle of uncertainty making its way up the length of her. 

_Come._

Her feet move on their own, starting up the hill, and the whole way up she imagines what she’ll see when she opens that door. Knows now without a doubt that she’s going to. The curiosity has toppled over the fear like a crashing wave.

Will he look the way Lupin did? All stretched skin and bones, fangs dripping? 

She shivers at the thought. Or perhaps the cold.

The Shrieking Shack sways even in the barely-there breeze, creaking eerily back and forth as she stops in front of the door. For a moment, she thinks it might be locked. But then she remembers all those stories. 

_The most haunted building in Britain._

There’d be no need to lock it. No one would be stupid enough to break in. No one would _want_ to.

No one, except for her.

She lifts the rusted latch, presses on the wood and steps across the threshold. 

To her dismay, it’s no warmer inside, but the cold is hardly her focus when all she can think about is holding her breath. 

_“Lumos.”_

The dilapidated sitting room is empty, the only sound that of the walls tilting. She moves as slowly as possible after shutting the door, making an effort to avoid floorboards that squeak as she makes her way to the foot of the stairs. 

She tries to see the silence as a good sign — fully transformed werewolves aren’t exactly the quiet type — but by the time she reaches the first landing, her wand hand is shaking. It makes the light flash across the walls like a strobe. 

She takes one or two steps down the corridor at the top of the stairs when she hears the faintest clink. Like keys jangling. Her head jerks to the side, following it — finding the door to a room that’s open just a sliver. 

Her heart rate picks up, starting to thud in her chest.

The sound comes again, more pronounced as her wand light draws closer, shining through the gap. She gathers a final deep breath and forbids herself to draw it out any longer, taking hold of the knob and pushing it open.

It’s not what she expects. 

Not any of it.

Malfoy is sitting on the far end of the empty room, most of the furniture cleared away or pushed off to the side. He’s seated calmly on the floor, legs crossed in front of him and his back against the wall, a lit candle at his side glowing faintly. 

And he’s reading.

Or, he was — shortly before she appeared.

She feels her brows draw together as his gaze jerks up and he meets her eyes, because this — it seems so _normal_. So the opposite of anything she ever expected. Nothing would feel off about it whatsoever were it not for the chains.

They’re the only thing.

Malfoy’s got a shackle on each wrist, iron links strewn across the floor where there’s slack and leading to reinforced hooks on opposite walls.

It’s—

_“Are you out of your fucking mind?”_

She startles. Blinks and refocuses her wand light on him, trying to remind herself of the situation. She hadn’t counted on needing to say anything. 

Part of her wonders if it would be better for him to be fully transformed right now.

“I—”

“Bleeding _fuck!”_ Whatever book he was reading is suddenly launched at the wall about a meter to her left, and she swears she can hear its binding crack.

“Calm down,” forces its way out instinctively.

“Are you blind, Granger?” Malfoy lurches to his feet and gestures angrily towards one of the boarded-up windows. The chains jangle with the movement. “Or did you somehow miss that enormous bright thing up in the sky?”

She scoffs. Splutters. “Excuse me?”

“The fucking _moon,_ Granger! You’re out of your fucking mind.”

“I’m—”

“Who said you could come here? Who even told you where to _look?”_

“No one!” she shouts. “I — no one had to tell me, I—”

“You’re going to get yourself _killed—”_

_“Malfoy,”_ she snaps, loud enough she can hear her voice echo down through the thin walls of the house. “Stop. I’m sick to death of you overreacting. Treating me like—”

“An idiot?” he demands, taking a step forward. There’s still some slack on the chains. “A fool with a death wish?” 

“I came here because you asked me to!”

This one echoes for longer, with nothing from Malfoy to overshadow it, and once it fades she’s left listening to the shack whistle and creak for far too many seconds.

_“Nox,”_ she murmurs, because the bright of her wand is blinding and she can no longer see his expression. Her eyes take a while to adjust to the dimness, the glow of his candle far gentler by comparison. She’s only just beginning to make out the look of confusion on his face when he speaks.

“What the hell are you talking about?” 

She steps forward and lets the door fall shut behind her, finally resting her wand arm against her side. All she can think to do is say it again. “I came because you asked me to.”

“I never—”

“Not out loud,” she murmurs, eyes drawn downward to the shackles again. “I heard the voice inside my head.”

Malfoy’s face works through a myriad of expressions before landing on one he appears to be comfortable with. He jolts up an eyebrow. “You’re hearing voices?”

“I’m not _insane,”_ she snaps, feeling a prick of anger at his tone. “I think it’s part of the bond.”

Malfoy stiffens. “It’s not a bond.”

“Link. Connection. Prison sentence. Whatever you want to call it, Malfoy, I _heard_ it.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Why would I _lie?”_ she hisses, eyes tracing over his face. The bruises from the fight are fading, his split lip mostly healed. “Besides,” she says, taking another step. “It led me to you. So how could I be making it up?”

“What did it say?” Malfoy demands, almost cutting her off.

_“Come.”_ She casts a wordless warming charm around herself, unable to stand the chill any longer. _“Come_ and _find_ and even _please_ , once, when I thought about turning back.”

Malfoy remains silent for a moment, then seems to force out a snort. “You should know it wasn’t me, then. I never say please.”

“Who was it if it wasn’t you?”

He looks her over, gaze scraping its way across her outline before sliding down and to the side. Looking at his shackles. He lifts one so she can see it better, dangling from his wrist. “The wolf,” he offers.

It nearly makes her breath catch, the way he refers to it. So casually. “The wolf?” she echoes, working to coat her tone in doubt.

“Yes.”

“You’re implying the two of you are separate?” She raises an eyebrow to match his, even as that entry from one of the books flashes behind her eyes. The one about _‘bisection.’_

Malfoy’s face twists, then — almost into a smile, though there’s nothing pleasant about it. “Oh, we are absolutely separate. There’s me.” He gestures down at himself. “And then there’s the _instinct.”_

It’s something about the way he says it. His voice doesn’t change, and yet it does. Somehow, everything about it shifts, just below the surface, and there’s all manner of darkness and new, unfamiliar intent behind it. It’s in his eyes, too. Just the briefest flash of what looks to her like pure violence.

She tenses up at the sight, speaking without thinking. 

“Are you going to change?”

All at once, Malfoy is Malfoy again, expression drawn in tight with bitterness — mocking her. “No, Granger.” And his little laugh is unfriendly. “My brew was particularly good this month, so it looks like I won’t get to tear you apart just yet.” He backs away then, slumping down into his seat against the wall once more and adding as an afterthought, “But you still shouldn’t be here.” 

She forces her muscles to relax, waiting almost half a minute before she says, “It wanted me here.” 

“Well, I don’t.” Malfoy tips his head back against the wall and shuts his eyes. A dismissal if there ever was one.

She lets out a short huff, an unbidden sense of disappointment flooding through her. Disappointment at _what_ , she can't fathom, but her fingers tighten around her wand, jaw clenching as she takes a step back towards the door.

Clearly, this was a mistake—

_Stay._

The voice fills her head, so sharp and so abrupt that she almost misses it when she squeezes her eyes shut. 

But she sees Malfoy jump. Sees him jerk upright against the wall and then try to hide it. She sees it and she knows.

“You hear it too.” 

Malfoy’s defense is weak, eyes downcast. He seems to wince even as he says it. “Fuck you, Granger—”

She’s already striding towards him — elated that she wasn’t wrong, driven forward by it — and before she knows it she’s taking a seat on the floor in front of him. A few centimeters from his feet. “It’s not just me. You hear it too.” 

She realizes she probably shouldn’t sound so excited.

“What does it matter?” Malfoy hisses.

“At this point, anything we can learn about this matters. Don’t you see that? We have to do whatever we can to understand this. Get a handle on this.”

Malfoy scoffs. “There is no _‘getting a handle on this.’_ We can’t _control_ this, Granger, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“But maybe we can prepare for it. Learn to work around it—”

_Take._

She stifles a gasp, the voice louder and more clear than it’s ever been before. Malfoy grimaces, jaw clenching the same way his fist does. 

And it’s that reaction, more than anything, that stokes her curiosity. 

“What does that mean?” she asks in a quiet voice.

“Fuck if I—”

_Take._

Malfoy makes a noise in his throat — something frustrated and pained, his head slamming back against the wall. He does it twice more, and she starts to feel the dull ache at the base of her own skull.

He knows, she realizes. He knows what it means.

_Take._

“I heard that before,” she says, leaning forward. “Early this morning.”

_Take._

Malfoy groans and drags his hands down his face, pressing his fingers hard into the skin until she feels it too. 

“Malfoy…” she reaches out to touch one of his hands. Maybe to draw it away from his face so she can look at him. “What does it—”

He grabs hold of her wrist so fast it steals the breath from her lungs. Shackles it, not unlike his own chains, and his eyes when they meet hers are venomous. Pupils massive. Bottomless voids of black.

“It means _take_ , Granger,” he growls, giving her a shake, his voice as tense as his grip. 

“I don’t—”

_Take._

“Take.” He says it at the same time, his voice layered darkly over the one inside her head. 

She fumbles, heart pounding. She’s sure he can feel the pulse in her wrist. “T-Take what?”

_Take._

“Take what I want,” he hisses, dragging her closer. Getting in her face. “What _it_ wants.”

“What — what does it want?” her voice is barely a whisper. Trembling, though she’s not sure from fear. “What…do you want?” 

_Take._

The chains rattle and suddenly the hand not shackling her wrist has her by the chin. 

She stops breathing.

And Malfoy holds her there, less than an inch from his face, as he says it. “I want to take it.” His breath is warm, ghosting across her lips. “But I don’t _want_ to want that.” 

Something is burning low in her stomach. Something’s coiling up and tightening. Her lungs can’t take in air.

Her lips tremble as she speaks. “You want to—

_Take._

“Take,” he echoes, grip tightening on her chin — drawing her closer still, until the tip of his nose brushes against hers. “I want to _take.”_

A shattered breath escapes her, and with it words she can’t believe she’s saying.

“Then take.”

His own exhale is cut. Sharp. Surprised. “What?” he breathes, just a hiss.

She screws up her courage, even when it doesn’t feel like she’s really in control anymore. “I said take.” 

_Take._

Her eyes fall shut, and she can feel her bottom lip graze his. Just the faintest brush of skin against skin—

Malfoy shoves her away so fast she almost doesn’t catch herself with her hands. Almost falls flat on her back. 

“What the fuck are you playing at?” he shouts, voice in shreds. “Are you — you want to make this _worse?_ Get out! _Get out!”_

She’s speechless. Can only stare at him, sprawled back and braced on her elbows.

“GO! Get out!”

_No,_ growls the voice in her head in the same moment. _Take._

Malfoy slams his palms against his temples. “I swear to Merlin if you don’t _shut the fuck up!”_

And then he starts yanking on the chains. Ripping at them and making the walls creak and groan even more than usual.

Blind fear forces her to her feet. 

_“Get out!”_ he roars.

She runs. 


	11. Breach / Bend

The wolf is silent.

For the rest of the week following the full moon, she hears nothing but her own distracted thoughts. 

Thoughts about things she shouldn’t be thinking about. Thoughts about _him._

Thoughts about the look in his eyes as he held her chin in his hand. Everything she saw hiding in those blackened depths. 

A great deal of it looked like hatred. Hatred and disgust and, above all, dissatisfaction.

How awful it must feel, she thinks, to be so _dissatisfied_ with her — the one his instinct chose. The one nature chose. How _disappointing_.

She wonders if he would’ve been happier with someone like Parkinson. Or one of the Greengrass sisters. 

Anyone would be better than Hermione Mudblood Granger. Right?

Which — that makes sense. It fits together in her mind. She’s dissatisfied too, after all. 

As if Malfoy would ever be her first choice for a _desk partner,_ let alone a mythical bonded cellmate.

Dissatisfaction is the overarching theme.

And yet — that’s not all she saw. 

Not all she felt.

In that moment, with his face mere inches from hers and his grip near bruising, there’d been a flicker. Not so unlike the one she felt staring at him from across that corridor, while he watched. 

She can’t pin it down for certain. But it looked and felt quite a bit like exhilaration. Like the thrill of doing something you shouldn’t.

She knows that feeling well.

Even if it doesn’t make sense.

* * *

_Hermione,_

_I know you’re avoiding it, and I understand why. Trust me, I do._

_But the book I suggested first — that’s the one you should be reading. That’s the one that’ll help._

_Give it a try, yeah? Please._

_Tonks_

* * *

It’s Monday afternoon. Christmas decorations float into place all around the halls as she heads for the Library to borrow reference texts for an essay.

Were she at a school far smaller and less crowded than Hogwarts, she might’ve noticed someone following her. 

But he’s able to tail her a good amount of the way from her last class without being found out, and it’s not until she rounds the corner into a vacant corridor that he speaks.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” 

Startled, she whips around. His voice is unfamiliar, but his face —

“Adrian,” she announces flatly. Almost unintentionally. She’s realizing just now that she’s been waiting for this to happen. Ever since they made eye contact across the Great Hall.

“Granger,” he echoes. He’s a lanky shadow a few feet away, hair carelessly hanging in his eyes again. He’s got one hand in his trouser pocket, the other laced around his bag strap, and he looks calm despite his rather abrupt accusation. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe I know what you’re referring to.” She forces herself to straighten out of a defensive posture. “Have we ever officially met?”

Adrian lifts an eyebrow, and then a moment later he takes a measured step forward, offering out his hand. 

She raises a brow too, even as she takes it.

“Adrian Pucey.”

“Hermione Granger.”

“Good, we’ve officially met.” He drops his arm and doesn’t skip a beat. “Like I said, you shouldn’t have done that.”

“Done what?”

“Gone to the Shrieking Shack.”

She didn’t think he’d come right out and say it. Admit straight away that he knows. It surprises her into momentary silence. 

Adrian studies her face as though he’s looking for something in particular, olive green eyes a little narrowed in concentration.

“Let’s take a walk,” he says.

“I don’t know you.”

“Yes you do. We shook hands.”

She holds firm, digging her heels in for good measure and lifting an eyebrow.

He sighs loudly. “Fine, then. I’m Adrian. Eighteen years old. Slytherin. Halfblood. I like long walks on the beach and eating gingersnaps, and I got kicked off the Quidditch team for making a positive comment about Oliver Wood. I hate shellfish. There. Now you know me.”

Her eyes are a little wide, she can feel it.

Adrian steps aside and gestures casually to the empty corridor behind him. “Let’s take a walk.”

She probably shouldn’t, all things considered. But she’s curious why and how much he knows. 

And after all, she has her wand — feels for it in the pocket of her robes even as she steps toward him. 

She knows enough hexes offhand to turn Adrian Pucey into a blind Pygmy Puff, should the need arise.

* * *

  
This is...

Well — it’s certainly _not_ what she expected. 

Anyone passing by might think they’re taking a leisurely stroll about the Castle. 

But in reality, she’s getting a lecture.

“— can _not_ just waltz around this situation like it’s a classroom experiment, Granger. These sorts of things have _consequences.”_

As it turns out, Adrian Pucey not only knows her as a paramour, but he‘s got all sorts of opinions about it as well. And his face remains calm — placid, even — as he rips into her.

“It’s abundantly clear you haven’t grasped the point of any of it yet, but I’m here to remind you that you do actually serve a purpose here, yeah? And from what I’ve seen and heard, you’re taking every opportunity to do exactly what you shouldn’t—“

“What you’ve seen and heard...” she echoes, because it’s all she can think to say. She can’t wrap her head around why he seems to believe he’s involved, and yet—

“Malfoy told me.”

She glances sideways and upward to see his face in profile as they walk. 

“Why would he tell you?”

“No need to sound so put out, Granger — it’s not like he wanted to. But it doesn’t take an expert to notice one of you dancing a jig every time the other stubs their toe. Just takes someone with eyes...and a little experience.” He shrugs one shoulder. “I asked how long you’ve been his paramour and the next day he was coming to me for advice.” 

_Experience. Advice._

“Are you saying that you’re—“

Adrian scoffs a laugh, cutting her off. “Not me, no.” And he meets her curious gaze as they meander around the corner leading to the Grand Staircase. “My mother.”

Her brows jolt up of their own accord.

“She was a Healer at St. Mungo’s. Got bit by a patient maybe a year or two after I was born.” Another laugh as they start to descend. “Story’s infamous amongst the Wizarding elite. Pureblood families like to gossip about it at tea — a perfectly satisfactory Halfblood family wasted.”

The slight twinge she feels in her chest makes very little sense. This morning she woke up knowing next to nothing about Adrian Pucey, and now here she is well on her way to sympathizing. 

It’s as if he senses it.

“This isn’t a sob story, Granger,” he says, jumping abruptly across the small gap onto a flight of stairs that’s already moving. 

She almost loses her footing trying to keep up, grasping for the stone banister. 

“I could give a fuck what Purebloods think. And I’m only telling you all this so you‘ll recognize me as the voice of reason here.” He stops abruptly and pivots to face her on the landing. “I know more than you do, and I can tell you now that you’re doing it all wrong.”

She can’t help a scoff, affronted _. “I’m_ doing it all wrong?” And she gestures down over the railing, in the vague direction of the Dungeons. “Malfoy’s the one—“

“Wasn’t it your idea to attempt that ritual?”

Her throat closes on her words.

Adrian shakes his head and huffs another laugh, “I thought you were the type to do research. At least enough to know that attempting a breach should always be a last resort.”

Her cheeks flush with blood. “A what?”

“A breach. Ripping the bond apart. That’s what it’s called.”

“Malfoy wanted to do it too.”

Adrian turns to lean back against the railing, letting a pair of Ravenclaws pass them by. “Malfoy puts up fronts. It’s all he knows how to do.” He folds his arms across his chest and sizes her up almost clinically. “If he thinks he’s supposed to hate you, then he’ll cling to that until it drags him over a cliff somewhere.”

“You’re saying he doesn't want to break the bond?”

“Mentally, maybe he does. Biologically? Not a chance.”

She struggles for words. “I don’t—“

“Point is, Granger — this whole paramour thing’s not meant to be fucked around with.”

“I’m not _trying_ to fuck around with it.”

He arches a brow. “Following him to the Shrieking Shack? Yeah, great idea. Doesn’t like you, even as a human. Why not see how the wolf behaves?”

She bites back on the defense that tries to leap from her throat. Takes care to remember that she doesn’t need to defend herself to Adrian Pucey, of all people.

The wolf asked her to come. All that matters is she knows it.

And so does Malfoy.

“Why do you care?” she demands instead. “About any of this?”

Adrian leans back a little. Seems to consider his answer.

“My mother would want me to. You and Malfoy are well on your way to making this ugly, and I’ve seen ugly.”

A flicker of curiosity sparks to life in her. 

“If you want my advice—”

“I don’t know if I do, actually,” she says.

“You’re getting it none the less.” He leans down a bit to match her eye line, expression a challenge. “This might seem like an exciting little learning opportunity for you, the way things are now, but you won’t feel the same when it starts to get gruesome. And it will, Granger — if you keep on like this.”

“That’s hardly advice—”

“Stop trying to wish it away. Stop toeing the boundaries. If you want to get through this even moderately unscathed, you’d best start making him like you.”

An incredulous scoff bursts from her mouth. “Excuse me?”

“Paramours are meant to ease the pain. To relieve stress, not cause it. If I were you — and thank fuck I’m not — I’d start thinking of ways to make myself valuable. I thought you had the right idea for a moment there, dolling yourself up the way you did. But now that I know that was for Weasley—”

She straightens up like a rod’s been driven through her spine. “That was for me. No one else.”

Adrian huffs. “Alright. Sure, Granger.”

“You know, I really don’t think I like you.”

“Good. Don’t. I don’t need to be liked. But you’ve got a reputation for being smart, and it’d be very smart to listen to me.”

“And what if I—”

“Hermione, I’ve been looking for you. Look!”

It’s Neville’s voice, just behind her, and a moment later he appears at her side. He’s got a wilted stem of Wolfsbane laid out gently across his gloved palm.

“Look at these clippings! Aren’t they…” 

He trails off the moment he realizes they’re not alone, his excited gaze morphing into something more akin to a deer in headlights as it finds Adrian.

“Oh,” he mumbles, going red in the face and quickly hiding the Wolfsbane behind his back. “Sorry.” 

Adrian blinks sleepily at him, an eyebrow raised. “Right. He told me Longbottom was involved.” He pushes off the railing, adjusting the strap of his bag as he takes a step towards them. And Neville, by no means short, looks somehow small juxtaposed with Adrian’s lanky frame. 

His wide eyes drop to the floor, ears going pink to match his face.

“Well,” says Adrian, cocking his head to the side. She can’t tell if it’s a smirk on his face or something else as he sizes Neville up. “At least someone here knows what they’re doing.”

And with that, he brushes past Neville’s shoulder and disappears down the stairs.

Neville clears his throat awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck with his ungloved hand and glancing her way. “What was that about?” 

She shakes her head. “Just another thing I don’t understand.”

* * *

It takes half an hour staring at it on her nightstand to work up the nerve.

Part of it feels like surrendering to something — and above all she hates to surrender. But with Tonks pushing at one end and now Adrian Pucey at the other, she’s beginning to think it’s no longer a choice.

With a sharp exhale, she tugs the pale blue volume onto her lap and draws her bed curtains.

  
_A Treatise on the Paramour_

  
It’s written on the cover in sleek gold, looking a great deal more welcoming than it should. She bites down on the inside of her cheek as she flips to the index, running the pad of her finger along the page in search of a good place to start.

It’s an instinct to gravitate towards the familiar.

  
_Symbiotic Sensation_

  
Strange, the faint sense of comfort she feels finding it in first-person.

  
_When I first encountered symbiotic sensation, research was minimal. The small portion of the Wizarding community paying it any attention at all seemed content with their simple, surface-level conclusion. A fail-safe to prevent paramour death._

_In my own experience, I’ve found nothing could be further from the truth. Most forget the most important aspect of the bond — that it is shared. I am not just paramour to the wolf. The wolf is paramour to me. Why, if symbiotic sensation is a safety precaution, would the paramour experience the wolf’s pain as well? Surely the wolf is in no danger of being killed by its paramour._

_That in mind, myself and other paramours I’ve encountered support a different conclusion. We believe symbiotic sensation is intended for therapeutic purposes. The bond between lycanthropic paramours needs to maintain its strength. It must be constantly nurtured, with both halves relying on the ability to feel one another in order to keep close — in heart and in mind._

_When one considers the instability and pain inherent to the werewolf condition, the paramour’s ability to share sensation makes perfect sense. When one half experiences exhaustion, the other half might then encourage them to rest. When one half experiences pain, the other will feel an intense urge to treat them._

_It is nature’s gift to the wolf. A constant link to the human form they can no longer confine themselves to. A bonded mate whose sole desires revolve around their well-being._

“Oh,” she whispers aloud without realizing, Adrian’s words rushing back to her. 

_“Paramours are meant to ease the pain.”_

Slowly, she closes the book and sets it aside, staring ahead at her bed curtains. 

It’s disturbing that it’s not something she ever thought to try. All this time, she’s used the sensations to inflict petty wounds, receiving nothing but the same from Malfoy in return. Because that’s what she thought it revolved around. Pain. 

_“Nox,”_ she murmurs, because she needs the darkness to focus. 

What’s the harm in trying it? Just once? Bending her one little rule when it comes to Malfoy?

Tantalizing as it is to make him squirm, she’s curious how their bond might react to something different. And if Adrian wants her to make herself useful, then to hell with him. She’ll try it. 

All the better for it if it turns out he’s wrong.

She loves telling people they’re wrong.

Lying back in the dark, she shuts her eyes and breathes out slowly. She’s noticed she can feel more of him when she focuses intently on it. Like meditation. 

It takes a few minutes. She lays in silence, trying to ignore small outward sounds and distractions. 

But it’s not long before she feels his pulse. A slow, even thud in the chest — a phantom offbeat to her own. She can feel his lungs expand when hers deflate — can feel the faint, throbbing beginnings of a headache.

She chases that sensation, narrowing her focus to what feels out of place. The aches and pains that normally fade to background noise when she goes about her day.

Malfoy is sore.

She hadn’t noticed before. Possible remnants of the full moon. She’s read that even weeks without a transformation still wear on the body.

His joints feel stiff, the expanse of his shoulders tight and strained. She grimaces as it all comes to the forefront.

He’s sleeping or resting, at least, she thinks. She doesn’t feel him moving. 

But the aches persist.

_Just try._

She sits up carefully, twisting to part the curtains. At such a late hour, there’s very little risk of surprising him in the middle of something. And also very little risk of being disturbed. 

Silently, she pads across the dormitory to the washroom and shuts the door behind her. 

_“Lumos.”_

Light from her wand reflects off the porcelain sinks and mirrors. She makes her way to the showers, thinking of what Malfoy wouldn’t think to do for himself. 

It’s quick work — transfiguring the shower into a small, private bath. The magic forms a tiled wall around the claw-foot tub, hiding it from view. 

She locks the door to the washroom anyhow. She’ll try not to be long.

_“Aguamenti,”_ she casts, and the tub begins to fill with hot water, steam wafting up. 

There’s very little that can’t be cured with a hot bath. Her mother always says that. 

Gathering a deep breath, she sheds her clothes and steps in, hoping to death she’s right. 


	12. Needles / Coils

Warmth crawls across the tether between them. 

She can feel it leeching its way through his senses as she sinks down into the tub. Can feel the faint flicker of surprise that is the catch in his pulse. 

She’s felt him shower across the bond before; she remembers the way those fine hairs on her arms stood up as the heat spread over her. A brief but not unpleasant warmth, like passing by a fire in the cold.

This, though — she thinks it will feel different. More potent. More intentional. Lasting.

He shifts where he lies. In bed but not asleep, she can tell. She can almost feel the gears turning in his head as he riddles out what she’s doing. Can sense his suspicion.

“It’s just a bath,” she says aloud for no one’s benefit, watching the steam rise and settling back against the porcelain. 

Her eyes fall shut as she works to clear her head, focusing once more on the pain she felt in him. Her shoulders throb with it, muscles strained as though she’s made the same uncomfortable movement over and over again.

She pictures him yanking against those chains and doesn’t have to wonder anymore.

Slowly, after warming her hands in the water, she reaches up and presses the pads of her fingers into the tense flesh between her shoulder and neck. Starts smoothing her way across the tendons, inch by inch.

Through the bond, his breath hitches yet again — a flutter in her chest. 

She adds more pressure, finding a spot wrought with tension just above her left shoulder blade. Malfoy stiffens.

 _Breathe,_ she thinks, even knowing he can’t hear. She works at the soreness with the flat of her thumb, gentle but firm until it gives way, uncoiling like a snake.

It’s the first of many, and Malfoy seems to squirm under her distant touch — a phantom discomfort she can feel in the hard set of his jaw, the whisper of what might be satin against her palms. She pictures him balling Slytherin green sheets into fists.

Still, she doesn’t let his uncertainty dissuade her, working through each and every knot of tension across the expanse of her shoulders until she feels the thudding of his pulse start to even out. Until the headache at the base of her skull begins to fade. 

It takes nearly half an hour. 

“There you have it, Malfoy,” she says to herself, letting her tired hands slip back into the hot water and sinking down a little deeper. “I’m not all bad.” 

It feels like he’s waiting for something, the way he lies so still. Waiting for her to hex the water to boil or inflict some sort of pain.

She swirls her fingers through the bubbles while he stews in his suspicion, creating little patterns until it feels like he allows himself to fall asleep.

With a sigh, she relaxes further, leaning her head back and shutting her eyes. She supposes she’s never truly _alone_ anymore, but at the very least she feels a sense of privacy when he’s sleeping.

Turns out it’s a much-needed bath for her as well. She’s been driving herself half-mad with all this research, trying to keep up with her studies on top of it and struggling to maintain an air of normalcy around her friends. 

She realizes she’s barely been sleeping at all. 

_Stop thinking of Malfoy, then,_ her subconscious demands. 

It’s easier said than done, what with his senses all tangled up in hers. Still, she tries. Casts a charm to reheat the bath and skirts around the subject of Malfoy in her mind, focusing on everything he’s overshadowed these past weeks.

A doomed endeavor, as it turns out, because what Malfoy’s overshadowed — what he’s somehow miraculously distracted her from — is Ron.

And now she’s left wondering what he’s doing this very moment. Wondering if he’s with _her._

Yes, she’s decided she’s no longer in love with him. That ship hasn’t sailed, it’s sunk. 

And yet, knowing that does very little to diminish the ache. Like she’s been slapped across the face not five seconds ago, and the sting just won’t go away.

It feels like she’s wasted so many moments thinking of him. Important moments. Her first kiss. Her first time.

Viktor was both, albeit almost a year and a half apart. He kissed her the night of the Yule Ball, and she’d been thinking of Ron. Wondering if he liked her dress or thought she looked ridiculous. Wondering why he hadn’t asked her to go with him instead.

But Viktor was sweet in his somewhat clumsy, brusque way. They kept in touch, sending owls back and forth throughout the summer and well into Fifth Year. 

He kept it all very proper, her being only sixteen. 

But she saw Sixth Year closing in ahead — the year she’d decided was _her_ year. The year she’d confront Ron about her feelings. 

And the thought of heading into that inexperienced terrified her. 

This past June, she wrote her first letter to Viktor in months — a heinously brief missive about meeting her for a date in London that probably felt more like a command than an invitation.

He arrived, none the less, and she blindsided him with a hotel room.

It’s hard to think about now, knowing it was wasted in pursuit of Ron. She realizes she was unfair to Viktor — all the tenderness he showed her, when she spent the whole night thinking of someone else.

But if her memory serves her right, it was good. 

Not great, but by no means bad — and her distraction could easily be to blame for any diminished spark. 

Viktor was gentle. Aware of her inexperience. Willing to go slow, willing to laugh with her through any awkwardness. 

All in all, for her first time, she’ll always feel incredibly fortunate. Someone kind. Someone gentle.

_Malfoy would not be gentle._

Her eyes fly open at the unwelcome thought — a rogue stream of consciousness seemingly bursting in from nowhere. 

There he goes again. Overshadowing everything. Appearing in places he has _no business_ appearing in.

She’s — that’s...that’s not even something she’s considered. Not even something she’d _want_ to consider, what with him being him and her being her. 

Even in — even in moments like the one they shared inside the Shrieking Shack, she feels certain nothing would’ve come of it. They’re meant to _repel_ one another. 

Yes. Exactly. 

She tries to relax again, letting her wide eyes sink shut.

 _But he wouldn’t,_ her thoughts continue, gone astray. 

“That’s just common sense,” she says aloud. 

Of course he wouldn’t be gentle. The word _‘gentle’_ doesn’t exist in Malfoy’s dimension. His family probably taught him to think of it as a synonym for weakness.

No, he wouldn’t be gentle. 

He would be selfish, not that it matters. He would probably think only of himself. Nothing of her. Nothing of what hurts, what’s too much. He wouldn’t start with a kiss. Wouldn’t run his thumb across her cheek or hold her close.

He would hurt her, the way he keeps saying he wants to. 

She can almost feel it now. The ghost of his hand wrapping around her throat. Squeezing until she fights for breath. No tenderness. Only pressure. Pressure and those eyes. Gray and heartless, glaring down at her — relishing in her desperation and panic — as he takes what he wants.

_Take._

An echo of that voice from before. Not loud, like it was. She’s not certain whether it’s really spoken again, or if it’s just a remnant from her memory.

Either way, it’s enough to snap her eyes open again. 

Just her. Alone in the bath. 

Only she doesn’t remember allowing her hand to slip between her legs. 

Both the sight and the sensation have her biting back a gasp. She can’t pinpoint when exactly in the last thirty seconds her nerve-endings caught on fire — when her own body turned against her — but she’s forced to consider that it happened while she was thinking about Malfoy.

She tries to take her hand away. Fully intends to clench it into a fist at her side and cross her legs as tightly as possible. To physically restrain herself.

But just the slightest movement of her fingers is enough to make her breath catch, a spike of pleasure shooting up her spine — the water threshing as her body jolts.

And it’s enough to wake Malfoy. 

She feels him startle to consciousness, his heart rate a muted thud in her own chest.

There’s a long moment of silence, only the quiet laps of the water against the edges of the bath to disturb it. She doesn’t move and it seems neither does Malfoy — as though he’s not certain what he’s just felt, and he’s waiting to determine how to react.

The wolf is not so indecisive. 

_Take,_ it says, clear as a bell. Unmistakable. 

She feels Malfoy suck in a sharp breath at the sound, sitting up in bed. Now he knows what he felt. Now he knows, and he’s nervous.

She senses it as clearly as she knows her own mind.

It’s strange. Feeling him so confused and helpless. She remains still, letting it sink in even as she knows she should take her hand away. Should drain the bath and be done with this. A strange mistake. An accident.

But then again, she’s never felt a shockwave quite like that. 

She takes a moment. Actually allows herself to consider it. 

Adrian said paramours were meant to ease the pain. If she had to define the opposite of pain, what she just felt wouldn’t be so far off.

And, if she admits it, there’s something inherently pleasant about making Malfoy nervous.

She feels very much in control, for once.

 _Take,_ the wolf repeats, sounding impatient.

“Take what?” she asks.

_Take what you want._

She gathers a slow, steadying breath, watching the water lap at her toes. “I’m not sure it’s what I want.”

The wolf doesn’t hesitate.

_You want it._

A growl. A demand.

_You want it._

Malfoy panics through all of this — reduced to pinpricks of nervousness exploding sporadically across her senses. She can feel him threading his fingers into his hair.

Almost instinctively, she asks, “Does _he_ want it?”

Strange, the way she can almost picture the wolf’s grin. Fangs exposed. Leering.

_Yes._

She feels bold.

“Show me.”

 _Take,_ is its reply, insistent. _Take, and you will know._

With a deep exhale, she leans her head back once more. Shuts her eyes and urges herself to take a risk. Good things come from risks.

As do dangerous things...

But she resolves not to think on those in this moment.

She lets her hand relax, allowing the tips of her fingers to graze that concentrated collection of nerves. 

Heat surges through her bloodstream at the touch, making her gasp, and Malfoy tenses up across the bond. 

She hasn’t done this in ages. Hasn’t felt the need to, so distracted by everything else. And yet, with just this faint touch, she feels the consequences of neglect. The urgent coil of need low in her stomach. 

Impatient, she curls her fingers again, and it’s like stretching a muscle the way the warmth blossoms, spreading and bleeding out. 

Malfoy’s fists have curled into the sheets again. His teeth are gritted, his brow heavy with tension — fighting it.

_Why are you fighting it?_

She’s far from sure whether the voice is hers or the wolf’s. 

It intensifies the need, and she can’t control it when the thought of Malfoy’s hand around her throat comes seeping back to the forefront. She doesn’t care if he senses it. If the bond allows him to know the depravity of her thoughts.

She only knows the way it makes the fire between her thighs burn brighter, sparks exploding across her nerve-endings as her fingers slide lower. Circle her entrance.

Malfoy’s panic spikes, and he seems to do the only thing he can think of.

A sharp pressure encircles her wrist, as though he’s taken hold of his own with the other hand in a desperate attempt to stop her. She feels the force of it as he tries to pry her fingers away. 

But it’s not strong enough. 

She tugs free of it and allows one finger to slip inside. 

Malfoy all but seizes up at the sensation — she feels the brief lapse in gravity as he falls back against his mattress, still fighting it. Turning sideways and curling into himself in an effort to drive it away. 

She thinks about stopping. Thinks it’s possible she’s hurting him, and for the first time finds the idea of it wholly unappealing. 

_Take,_ the wolf commands, sensing her hesitation. 

“He doesn’t want it.”

 _He wants it._ A growl. _I want it._

And that’s when her senses feel like they break apart — open up and out, spreading to encompass what they couldn’t before. Suddenly she feels more of him than she’s ever felt. An acute sense of each breath. Each thud of his pulse. The cold of the sweat beading on his brow and the coil of his muscles as he tenses further.

That isn’t all she feels though. 

There’s a foreign, deep sort of ache she’s not sure how to place, twisting in her gut. A need that isn’t inward as she knows it, but outward. A craving to fill. To thrust. To _take._

A want that’s unlike anything she’s ever experienced. 

It doesn’t burn, it _cuts._ Punctures like a needle, injecting desire thick as ink into her veins. 

Whatever it is, it snaps her control in half, and her toes curl against the edge of the bath as she slides that finger in deeper. Pulls it out only to thrust in two. Starts to pump them in and out without hesitation. Without thoughts of consequences. No holds barred.

Malfoy writhes where he lays, flipping over to bury his face into the pillows, fists digging into the mattress on either side. 

_Please._

Is that him? Is it the wolf?

She has no way to tell. 

_Please. Please. _

She curls her fingers inside, sliding deeper into the bath with a gasp and gripping the rim to steady herself. 

_Stop fighting it,_ she thinks, wishing for once beyond all else that he can hear.

It feels like a lightning strike when Malfoy gives in. She knows the exact moment he lets go — the exact moment he takes himself in hand.

Unknown, inconceivable sensations — a boiling, explosive brand of pleasure she’s never known. He grips hard. Strokes upward once. The hair at the back of her neck stands on end, a moan ripping out of her throat.

She struggles to sit up, water thrashing as she grapples desperately for her wand on the floor. Tries to cast a Silencing Charm without losing the contact of her other hand. Without losing her grip on the electricity running through her. Through them both.

Malfoy has risen up onto his knees, one hand braced on the mattress, the other unable to stop. Pumping up and down as his labored breathing echoes in her ears.

Images fly across the backs of her eyelids. Flashes of her own face, cheeks flushed — her own curls, wild and scattered. Herself, leaning back against a wall, fingers tangled into the hair of someone he doesn’t care for enough to flesh out in detail. Just a blur on its knees.

It’s what he’s imagining, she realizes. What he’s thinking of.

The night he saw her across the corridor. 

She pulls her fingers out, focusing on tracing lines up and down across that epicenter of nerves. Malfoy’s gaze reappears in her mind, that phantom grip a growing warmth around her throat, and with every stroke of his, she imagines what it might feel like to have him inside of her. To be pinned down as he fills her. Stretching, caving. Driving deeper. 

It feels wrong.

So incredibly _wrong_ , and yet it's all she wants in the world in this moment. 

Malfoy. Fucking her.

Just thinking the word brings color to cheeks. She’s never considered it in those terms before. Never thought she’d _want_ it in those terms before.

But the mere concept of it brings her so close to the edge she can barely breathe, and she swears she can hear Malfoy’s cut groan in her ears as he’s forced to consider it too. 

What it would be like. 

What it _could_ be like.

 _“Fuck,”_ she gasps out, and it takes her by surprise — the way the orgasm rips through every tendon, every ligament, like a wildfire.

Malfoy collapses with his, the tense press of his hand against the mattress trembling before giving way, and the sensation whites out her vision. Makes her spasm and shake, thighs clenching around her hand as the water crashes over the edges of the bath onto the floor.

Every inch of her skin feels raw and exposed as she comes down from it, her chest heaving, heart thudding like a hammer just beneath. 

It takes great care to draw her hand away without accidentally grazing some flayed nerve. She lets it float to her side like it’s weightless, staring up at the ceiling of the washroom and trying to wrap her head around what she’s just done.

What _they’ve_ done. 

The wolf’s voice trickles in like a dark reminder. 

_You wanted it._

She did. 

It’s a punch in the gut to admit it to herself, but at this point there’s no ignoring it. No more pretending.  
She wanted it. 

And it would seem so did he.

* * *

She knows it’s coming.

Catches herself almost deliberately walking slower — walking by herself — because she knows. 

And like clockwork, the next morning as Hermione emerges from around the corner to the Great Hall, he’s there. Leaning against the adjacent wall, arms crossed. Waiting. 

The hall is mostly empty, the majority of the student body already at breakfast. 

So no one sees the way he comes at her, pushing off the flagstone to charge across the distance between them. He takes hold of her arm before she can get a word out, dragging her back around that same corner and down the corridor a ways until he can pull her into the shadows beneath the Grand Staircase.

He wastes no time shoving her against the wall, never freeing her wrist from his almost painful grip.

_“I told you not to fuck around.”_

She keeps her calm — expected this and prepared for it. She’s steeled herself and decided not to allow him to rile her.

“I wasn’t.”

Malfoy squeezes harder, crowding her and dipping his head to growl in her face. “You’re going to deny it?”

This close, she can smell the soap he showers with. Something like pine. She tilts her chin up. “I’m not denying what we did. But I wasn’t fucking around.”

“What would you call it, then?”

She quirks a brow. “Some people call it masturbating. But if you prefer, there’s always self care? Autoeroticism? Touching—”

He drops her wrist and takes her face in hand — a movement quick and jarring, his fingers digging into the hollows of her cheeks not so unlike that night in the Shrieking Shack.

_“Shut your mouth.”_

“What instinct is it that makes you grab me this way?” she asks, working to keep her voice even despite the way her pulse spikes. “You’re out of your mind if you think I won’t hex you for it.”

Malfoy’s sharp eyes flit between hers. The pressure of his hand doesn’t diminish so much as a fraction. “Why did you do it?”

“For myself.”

He gives her a jerk, and she uses the movement to snatch her wand from her pocket, quick to hold it up to his chin. 

His eyes just tighten.

“You’re lying,” he hisses.

“It’s my body. I’ll do what I want with it.”

Malfoy’s face dips closer to hers, chin pressing into the tip of her wand — a threat. “If you knew it was a way to torture me, you’d have done it much sooner. You’re lying.”

She searches for the words she knows will frustrate him most.

“It felt good.”

His fingers dig deeper, well and truly bruising. “What makes you think you have the _right?”_

Her jaw aches. She presses hard on her wand in retaliation. “I was only taking Adrian’s advice.”

“Adrian?” he snaps, surprised by the name but by no means retreating.

“Yes.” She dares to smile up at him. “After all, you told him about me, didn’t you? He suggested I make myself useful.” 

“And you think that was _useful?”_

She fights against any and all reservations to tilt her face closer to his. “You certainly seemed to enjoy yourself.”

His eyes flood with rage.

“I feel everything you feel.” She can’t help but drive the knife in deeper. Wants to see what’ll happen. “I know what excites you. I felt it.” 

Something glows behind that rage. Something he’s trying to hold back.

“Do you know what excites you, Malfoy?”

His heart starts to pound. A staccato beat in stark contrast to her own languid pulse. She’s in her element when she’s in control.

“Do you know what makes you come?”

Malfoy’s breath hitches, not expecting her to speak in such terms. The fury in his gaze diminishes to make way for something else. Something dark and conflicted. Full of an intent that makes the muscles in her stomach clench the way they did last night.

“Do you know what you think about?” she asks, voice dropping to a whisper. It takes a concentrated effort not to glance down at his lips, only centimeters from hers the way he looms over her. “Want me to tell you?”

Malfoy’s looking at her lips and not even bothering to hide it. “Yes,” he says in a voice much changed. Distracted and dazed.

She lets the tip of her wand slide out from under his chin — slide up the line of his jaw towards his temple. She taps it there once, accentuating her words. Words it takes a great deal of courage to force out.

“You think about fucking me.”

It’s almost drunken, the way he sways towards her. Like he’s magnetized.

“Don’t you?”

 _“Yes,”_ he breathes, and she can feel it against her lips, he’s so close.

“I think about it, too.” 

Malfoy breathes in. Holds it. His gaze is fixed on her mouth, bruising pressure fading until he cradles her face in a grip that’s almost delicate.

“Sometimes, I think it might not be such a bad idea.”

“Yeah?” he forces out, and his nose grazes hers.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I think I—”

_“Hey.”_

It’s a nervous, familiar voice, built up to sound tough. They break apart with a gasp and find Neville with his wand aimed, a few feet away in the lonesome corridor.

He’s pointing it at Malfoy, and she realizes that all he sees is Malfoy’s hand on her chin and her wand pressed against him. All he thinks is he's helping.

“Let go of her,” he commands, his stance strong even as his voice falters.

Malfoy, having realized exactly who’s stumbled upon them, sinks back into his own arrogant confidence. He releases her chin, pivoting to face Neville and straightening up to his full height.

“Really, Longbottom?” he sneers. “Here to save the day for Granger? A fucking knight in shining armor?” 

She doesn’t like the way it makes Neville stutter — the way he flushes cherry red.

So she steps out from the shadows of the staircase towards him, looping her arm through the one not pointing a wand. “I think I did need saving, actually.” 

Malfoy’s lip curls up as he watches her, fists gathering at his sides.

“Thank you, Neville,” she says, staring directly at him. Seeing him fight to swallow back all the rage and frustration she’s stirred up, all the while proving her point. “He might’ve eaten me alive.”

They walk away together, Neville’s wand still out at his side, leaving Malfoy under the stairs. 

* * *

_*Below art is NSFW*_

_/_

by _mignonchignon on Instagram

by @gubabuba (https://linktr.ee/gubabuba)


	13. Run / Hide

_Notes on the Infection_

_There are very few werewolves in existence who were bitten by choice; engaging in such an act voluntarily is considered illegal._

_Therefore, it is not uncommon for those bitten to feel a deep sense of resentment towards their infector, however accidental the event may have been. In my own experience, my bonded half eventually came to make peace with the one who infected him; something I did not agree with myself. Paramours, by nature, are meant to hate what their bonded half hates, and I very much hated the one responsible for this affliction. The forgiving nature of my mate is incredibly rare and should not be regarded as a baseline._

_Indeed, most other subjects I encountered in my research wished death upon their infectors._

_That being said, there is only one instance in which a werewolf may kill the one by whom they were bitten. Natural and magical laws render it otherwise impossible. But should an infector ever pose a threat to a wolf’s paramour, the wolf will be compelled — as well as legally permitted — to take their life._

_Nature demands it._

  
She’s disguised the cover so she can read it in public — a charm that makes it look like an Arithmancy text. Her facial expressions, on the other hand, are not so easily hidden.

“I don’t like Arithmancy much myself,” says Ron across the train compartment. “But bloody hell, Hermione, you look terrified.”

She schools her expression immediately, shutting the book and dropping it onto her lap. “Just a confusing section.”

Ron fights a laugh, only to tense up suddenly when a shadow appears outside the glass compartment door. 

Lavender.

Harry clears his throat a bit louder than he should, adjusting where he sits next to her. Hermione can only stare, watching the awkwardly elaborate depiction of a heart with an arrow through it get traced onto the glass.

Lavender breathes hot air against it, as if it needed to be any clearer. Then, with a simpering glance at Ron, she prances away.

Hermione can’t hold it in. 

“Charming.”

Harry snorts as Ron flushes red. 

“It’s only a few weeks,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “You don’t think she’ll explode or something, do you?”

“Hard to say,” is Harry’s sage advice. “Suppose we’ll find out.”

It’s a statement to encompass everything, really. This will likely prove to be the most interesting — if not the most uncomfortable — holiday she’s ever had.

Mrs. Weasley invited her to spend it at the Burrow many months back in the summer, and arrangements were made. Who could’ve seen far enough ahead to know the state of things now?

She can’t invent some excuse, though. Her parents have already made plans to travel the week of Christmas.

Which means she’ll just have to cling to Harry for the majority of her stay. 

The Trolley Witch stops by their compartment, and as Harry and Ron scramble to buy sweets, she lets her head rest against the cold window. Watches the bare winter trees fly past.

Somehow, she managed to get through the last week of classes leading up to the holiday without crossing paths with Malfoy.

She feels the color rush to her cheeks just thinking of him. Of that moment under the stairs. Thinking about what she said — so filthy and unlike herself. Thinking about what _he_ said — so unexpected.

Her fingers absently trace the charmed letters on the book cover.

She’s not sure where they go from here.

* * *

  
Not two seconds off the train, Mrs. Weasley has a hand on either cheek and demands to know what’s changed.

“Something’s different, love. What is it? You look different.” Her warm eyes pass quizzically over Hermione’s face. Over the light makeup she’s applied — her slightly more uniform curls.

Hermione manages a nervous smile. “Just, erm — just been putting in a bit more effort, that’s all.”

“It shows,” Mrs. Weasley announces brightly. “Ron? Ron, don’t you think she looks absolutely lovely?” 

Freezing up mid-struggle with his trunk, Ron looks like a caged animal, eyes darting anywhere but her direction. Blood rushes to his cheeks. “I — er, yeah. Sure, mum. Yeah.”

Mrs. Weasley only scoffs, moving on to fuss over Harry and leaving Hermione staring at Ron. He flashes an awkward smile, quick to divert his focus back to his trunk.

Maybe a month ago, his response would’ve stung. She considers it as she gathers up her own luggage, suddenly feeling a bit lighter on her feet. Ron’s opinion no longer weighs what it used to.

Mrs. Weasley, on the other hand, doesn’t miss an opportunity to address the elephant in the room throughout the holiday. 

The first night, at dinner, she somehow veers conversation onto the subject of Lavender Brown’s marks — _“Nowhere near top of the class, is she Ron? Nowhere near Hermione.”_

The following morning, as Hermione helps her with dishes, she makes the not-so-subtle suggestion to dress in orange more often. Ron’s favorite color. 

And the monogrammed jumper she unwraps Christmas morning is the brightest shade of orange she’s ever seen.

Still, it’s hardly as awkward as it could be. Harry and Ron teach her to play Exploding Snap when they aren’t flying around on brooms, and she and Ginny manage to pull off an elaborate prank on the twins.

She feels very little by way of Malfoy. It occurs to her that perhaps the sensations diminish the further they are apart. A much needed respite for both of them.

It isn't until Christmas night that things begin to slip downhill. 

Tonks and Professor Lupin visit for dinner.  
  
Immediately, she’s forced to recognize the similarities. Professor Lupin’s hunched, exhausted demeanor is all too familiar, his weary eyes rimmed red. No one needs to remind her it’s the week of the full moon.

Still, the subject inevitably comes up when Tonks pulls her aside at the first opportunity. Privacy is hard to come by in the Weasley home. They don’t get the chance until about an hour after dinner.

Just around the corner from the kitchen, they speak in hushed tones. Tonks asks if she’s sorted out the voices yet.

“I — it’s the wolf’s voice, isn’t it?”

Tonks nods in a manner almost grave. “Yeah. Sort of the string latching you two together. A shared consciousness even if you don’t control it.” 

Hermione frowns. “Then it isn’t the wolf?”

“No — it is, it is. It’s — well, it’s sort of hard to explain, really. The books do a better job of it than I can. The voice _is_ the wolf, but the wolf can be influenced by both of you. Its consciousness is an amalgam of both of you.” She offers an apologetic smile. “Does that make sense?”

“No.”

“It will soon enough. I promise.” She squeezes her shoulder.

“How is Professor Lupin? I know this week isn’t the best.”

“As good as can be expected. Gets a bit skittish around me the closer he is to a transformation, but he’ll be alright.” And she hesitates before asking, “How is, erm — how is your…”

“Fine. He’s fine. I — well, I think. I couldn’t really say.” There’ve been hardly any sensations to go off of.

“Are you learning to get along?”

“Not at all.”

Tonks’ hair glows a gleeful yellow shade as she grins. “I’m not surprised. Sure you’re as headstrong as I was.”

“Was?” Hermione echoes and can’t help smiling back.

“Yeah, alright.” Tonks swats her arm and gives her a good-natured shove back into the kitchen. 

It’s only then that they hear the raised voices. Just a room away.

Lupin’s tone is strict. “You’re blinded by hatred.”

“I’m not —” Harry’s voice, trying to argue.

_“Yes you are.”_

Hermione doesn’t even notice herself crossing the kitchen. Doesn’t notice she’s moved until she’s looming in the doorway to the sitting room. 

Lupin leans towards Harry across the center table from his armchair. “The odds that Voldemort has chosen Draco Malfoy for a mission are slim to none.”

Hearing his name sends an unexpected jolt through her. An odd blend of anticipation and defensiveness.

Though, whether she wants to defend him or herself, she isn’t sure. 

Harry leans forward where he sits too, emphatic. “I’ve seen him. I _know_ him,” he insists.

“A _boy,_ Harry. A boy. Not even a man. Voldemort does not put his faith in such hands.”

“And what if you’re wrong?”

Lupin sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Harry…”

In all honesty, she thinks she might’ve actually said something. Had things gone differently, she very well might’ve made an alarmingly stupid decision and opened her mouth. 

As it is, she never gets the chance.

It feels like lightning strikes the side of the house. A massive crash, seemingly from nowhere. Glass shatters as objects fall from shelves, the haphazardly stacked floors above them creaking as the whole structure sways on impact.

Lupin and Harry jump to their feet, and Tonks is right behind her in an instant. Footsteps scramble down the stairs at the commotion, but the four of them have already flocked to the front door, filing out onto the porch.

The glow is bright — unexpected and almost blinding. A ring of flames cutting through the field around the Burrow. Encircling it.

Professor Lupin steps off the porch, wand drawn and Tonks flanking him.

Hermione draws her own wand as an afterthought, confused as her eyes search the dark field beyond.

“What’s happening?” Tonks asks, voice hushed and tense. But a few moments more and she needn’t have bothered.

A black, swirling apparition cloud plummets to the earth from above, and from its darkness emerges Bellatrix Lestrange. 

Everything happens so fast. Hermione nearly loses her footing, Harry bursts past her at such a breakneck pace. Outlined by the flames, Bellatrix flashes him a blackened grin before turning on her heel and disappearing into the weeds. 

“Harry, _no!”_ shouts Lupin, but Harry’s already gone, charging after her.

“Ginny! _Ginny!”_

Molly's voice, and moments later Ginny’s scarlet hair has vanished into the field behind him. And perhaps it’s that — seeing both of them give chase without a second thought — which spurs her onward. 

Tonks tries to grab for her, briefly catching the sleeve of her jumper but nothing more. Hermione casts a charm to cut her way through the flames, racing into the field after them as Lupin’s shouts fade away.

Harry is reckless with his emotions. She’s known him long enough to know that. He will not be careful. 

He’ll think only of revenge.

She runs through all her best spells in her head as she follows the sounds of their feet sloshing through the marshes — considers the ones she can cast the quickest and the ones that’ll do the most damage. 

Soon enough, the cold, murky water seeps its way through her shoes, sending a chill up through her toes. Her hand cramps around her wand, gripped too tight at her side.

And all at once, she loses track of the footsteps. 

She's fallen behind. 

“Harry?” she calls out, breathless as she comes to a stop. Steam clouds in front of her. “Ginny?” 

The field has gone silent, only insects humming in the thick dark. 

_“Lumos,”_ she casts, beginning to turn in a slow circle. Trying to orient herself. 

She must’ve veered in another direction, she thinks — chasing the wrong sound. 

“Harry?” she tries again, raising her wand high to spread out the light. 

Her pulse still races from running. The weeds play tricks on her eyes, every direction she turns looking similar. She's lost sight of the Burrow in the distance. 

“Harry?”

A strange, low sound ripples towards her, as though on the wind. A deep, rumbling growl.

She tenses up, aiming her wand at the source — hidden in the shadows of the tall weeds just ahead. The figure approaches slowly, bit by bit moving into the light. Enormous. 

Her breath escapes her in a rush, rattling through the silence. 

She's seen this man — recognizes him from those Ministry Undesirable postings. Though, seeing him up close, she’s not so sure he’s a man at all. A beast, more like. 

Fenrir Greyback. Escaped from Azkaban. One of the most lethal werewolves in existence.

His matted braids dangle down over the shoulders of his open coat, his grin wide and leering as he steps closer. His fangs look sharper than any blade. 

It's shameful, the way the spells she'd been running over slide right out of her head in the face of him. She stumbles backward, sloshing through the water — desperately trying to recall a single hex. 

_“Immobulus,”_ he grunts. She's made this far too easy for him. 

And the way her limbs lock up like a statue’s — her heart nearly stops.

“All alone out here, little one?” Greyback teases. His voice is like sandpaper. 

She can’t speak. Her tongue is unresponsive. Her eyes refuse to blink.

“Oh, I know you, don’t I?” he says after a moment’s consideration, fully emerging from the weeds. His obscene height casts a dark shadow over her this close. 

He reeks of blood.

“You’re Potter’s mudblood, aren’t you?” He starts to circle her, the water lapping at her ankles with each movement. 

It’s only when he disappears behind her that her pulse really starts to thud. She feels the tip of his wand sweep the hair off her neck, brushing it aside. A gasp gets trapped in her lungs.

Greyback inhales deeply, then out again, and the way it warms her skin makes her stomach churn. He growls again — this one darker. More sustained than the last. And when he speaks, there’s a twisted sort of satisfaction in his tone. “Oh, but that’s not all you are, is it?”

Her wand is hot in her grip, useless.

Greyback’s black eyes glisten with interest when he reappears in front of her. _“Paramour.”_ The word is hissed like a curse. 

And it’s the first time she hears the wolf’s voice in weeks.

_Run._

It sounds strained. Panicked. 

Greyback cocks his head to the side, pointed tongue passing over his fangs as he studies her.

_Run. Hide._

Her heart is a hammer. 

_I can’t._

“You must belong to the Malfoy whelp,” says Greyback.

The sensation that writhes up inside of her is strange — a fury mixed with helplessness. One that isn’t just hers.

Greyback reaches out then, hand not gripping his wand taking hold of one of her curls. “I had a paramour once.” He tugs it towards him, straightening the coil, and all the while his empty eyes bore into hers, watching them water — desperate to blink. “And do you know what I did to her?”

Sparks fly off in the distance, accompanied by the sharp cracks of hexes. Lighting up the field not far away.

_Harry,_ she thinks, his name like a lifeline.

Greyback seems only mildly bothered by this, head tilting towards the lights for only a moment before his focus returns. He draws ever closer, foul breath ghosting across her face as he twists that curl into a painful fist.

“I killed her,” he purrs. “And then I ate her.”

She wants to be sick. Her lungs ache. Tears roll down her cheeks from her burning eyes. 

“And one day, little mudblood…I’ll do the same to you.”

A noise blares inside her head. Like screaming.

The furious roar of the wolf.

Greyback laughs as though he hears it too. Or perhaps it’s her weakness that amuses him.

But before he can make good on his promise, Harry’s voice splits through the darkness.

“Hermione? Hermione, where are you?”

Greyback steps back, releasing her curl. A grin drags up one side of his face as he gives a disappointed sniff. A moment later he disapparates, and the spell breaks.

She collapses in the weeds. 


	14. Miasma / Redolence

She pretends it was nothing. 

Pretends she was only caught off guard. Frightened. The last thing she needs to deal with is an overreaction.

Molly wraps her in a blanket and makes her a cup of tea. The Order arrives to set up stronger wards around the Burrow. Harry broods over another stolen chance at revenge.

And from the corner by the fireplace, she just sits in silence, staring into her lap. 

Greyback barely touched her. And yet she's never felt so violated. 

She returns from the Burrow the very next day — early, and a surprise to her parents. They’ve only just gotten back. She makes excuses about not feeling well, and her mother sends her up to bed with yet another cup of tea. 

But the last thing she wants to do is sleep.

She paces the small confines of her room, nervous and itchy, stomach still in knots. Can’t stop picturing Greyback’s empty eyes, tracing her like wounded prey.

She did nothing. She did _nothing._

She never wants to feel helpless like that again.

The afternoon fades into evening, then into the darkness of night, and all the while she sits jackknifed against her headboard, unable to relax. Her tea is long cold, sitting lonesome on her dresser.

It’s occurred to her that there are other things to worry about. Greyback knows more than he should. And a Death Eater knowing the weakness of one of Harry’s closest friends is a great deal more concerning than her own disappointment in herself.

But she can’t let go of the way she froze up. Useless. Pathetic. Her hands curl into bloodless fists at her sides, going numb with fury. 

It consumes her for hours — until nearly half-past one in the morning, when the familiar crack of apparition rattles across her quiet neighborhood. It jolts her like an electric shock, all of her defenses racing to the forefront. 

She's out of bed in an instant, reaching for her wand on the nightstand and rushing to the window. 

The street below is empty. Lonesome in the dark, one solitary streetlight glowing to light the way. But she knows what she heard. It's not a sound one easily mistakes. 

She should put up defenses around this house too, she realizes. Like the ones at the Burrow. 

It never occurred to her how exposed it is.

Her eyes trace the sidewalks — all the shadows beneath the trees, seeking even the slightest movement.

No one outside of the Order should know where she lives. No one should —

“Granger.”

She nearly jumps a mile, whipping around and backing into the dresser with enough force to knock the teacup off the edge. Her wand is out, shaking in her grip and aimed at the pitch black doorway leading to the hall.

 _“Lumos,”_ she breathes, heart pounding in her ears.

Bright light washes over the form of Draco Malfoy, inexplicably standing in her childhood bedroom. 

If she was in her right mind, she’d scream. He’s broken into her house. Somehow knew how to find her. He’s here, uninvited, in the middle of the night. 

And his eyes are black. Completely, utterly black. 

It nearly knocks the breath out of her.

“Granger,” he says again. His voice doesn’t sound right. Too low. Too rough, even with just one word.

Her wand hand shakes, making the light washing over him flicker. 

“Malfoy?” she breathes.

And all at once, everything changes. The color and light floods back into his eyes, his strange, looming posture sinking into something a great deal more exhausted. He lets out a heavy breath, like he’s been running, gaze dazed as it falls to the floor.

It’s a shift so quick and drastic, she wonders if what she saw before was just a trick of the light.

And her defenses drop without her say so. 

She knows she should be terrified. But she has no control over the way the tension in her muscles dissolves — the way her wand lowers. 

In the sudden absence of direct light, she can only see his outline as he turns and shuts the door. 

“How did you —”

“I don’t know,” he says, voice quiet. It’s the one she recognizes. “I apparated to where I thought I felt you, and it brought me here.” 

For a moment, she says nothing, staring straight ahead at his shadow. 

“Your eyes were black…” she breathes when she can manage it. 

Malfoy doesn’t respond, the dark outline of his form shifting its weight from one leg to the other. 

The light from her lowered wand starts to sting her eyes. 

_“Nox,”_ she murmurs, plunging them into darkness before she turns and switches on the lamp behind her. 

Its light is dim by comparison, much like a candle’s, but it’s enough to see his face. To take him in as a whole.

The full moon is two days away, and it shows. He looks even more exhausted than Lupin, his hair unkempt — hanging in his eyes. There’s little color in his cheeks and very little calm in his stance. Tense and uncomfortable, his arms crossed. In a black sweatshirt and jeans, he looks the least like the Malfoy heir she’s ever seen.

Quietly, she clears her throat. “Did my parents—”

Malfoy scoffs under his breath, sounding more like himself as he takes a step further into the room, glancing around. “You think I can’t slip past a pair of Muggles undetected? Really, Granger.” He reaches out at his side, running his finger curiously over one of the brass bed knobs.

The word _‘Muggles’_ is spoken without any effort to hide his distaste, and for a moment she struggles to bottle up a flare of anger. 

“Why are you here?”

His gaze flits back to hers — a sharp little movement. He seems to consider his answer for a long while. Then, with another step forward, he speaks in a tone more like the other one. Rough as gravel. 

“He smelled like you.”

A small breath hitches in her throat.

“He was at the Manor, maybe an hour ago, and he smelled like you. I panicked.”

She’s shocked to hear him admit something like that, especially when it comes to her — but the shock is overshadowed by a weird and warm sort of satisfaction she can’t tamp down. 

“You panicked?” she echoes, just to hear the words again.

“The wolf panicked,” he amends, moving closer still. About three feet from her, still pressed back against the dresser, he stops — and she watches his nose wrinkle up as he draws in a deep breath. “You reek of him, too.”

Her stomach twists at the thought.

“I...” She draws her arms in tight around herself, suddenly cold. “I did shower. Tried to wash it all off.”

She also cut the strand of hair Greyback tangled up, but she doesn’t tell him that.

Malfoy huffs bitterly. “A _shower’s_ not going to fix anything.”

And all at once, those missing sensations come flooding back — resuscitated by their proximity. She feels his rage, hot and jarring. Fit to boil over. 

The words come instinctively. “Calm down.”

“I _am_ calm,” Malfoy snaps, reaching out to grip the footboard again. “But that stench is fucking vile.”

She has the good sense to cast a muffling charm on the bedroom at that point. His voice is no longer quiet.

Malfoy rolls his eyes at her efforts. “I’m not going to wake them up.” He turns away to pace the area between the bed and her desk.

She asks without thinking. “Did you know about the attack?” Something she’s been wondering since yesterday.

“No,” he mutters.

“Really?” And there’s more doubt in her tone than she intended.

Malfoy shoots her a glare that could boil water, lip curling up over his teeth. “Yes, _really,”_ he seethes. “What, you think that’s the sort of thing they’d tell me?” 

_They._

She wonders if he means his family, or — well, something else.

It’s a subject she doesn’t know how to broach, so instead she asks, “Why are you pacing?”

Malfoy scoffs but doesn’t stop, hands balled into white-knuckled fists at his sides. “I’m stressed.”

“I’ve more reason to be stressed than you, don’t you think?”

He stops only briefly to brandish a hand in her direction. “Then I’m stressed because you’re stressed! _Fucking hell._ Why do you have to make everything so difficult?”

“You’re the one who came here,” she says quietly, crossing her arms again. 

He stops by her desk now, gaze jutting around as he sort of angrily studies the books and picture frames spread out across its surface. “I didn’t have much choice. My vision was blacking out around the edges.” 

“What does that mean?”

He doesn’t answer — instead gathers another deep breath, letting it hiss back out through his teeth. Taking hold of her desk chair, he grips hard and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “It’s fucking _unbearable.”_ And he yanks one hand free to gesture at her without looking. “He’s all over you.”

She stiffens. The concept makes her itch. “He barely touched me.”

“Shouldn’t have _touched_ you at _all,”_ says Malfoy under his breath — only, like the moment he arrived, it doesn’t sound anything like him. The tone is off, the words spoken in what seems like a completely different register.

Hearing it distracts her so much that for a moment she can’t think of anything to say.

“I…” she murmurs, glancing away to gather her thoughts. Her eyes land on the books Tonks loaned to her, stacked up on the floor by her nightstand. “Let me check,” she says, clearing her throat and crossing over to them.

Malfoy’s voice is back to normal when he speaks. “Check what?”

She picks up the red book — vaguely remembers seeing the word _‘miasma’_ in the index.

“I’m sure there’s something we can do,” she says, taking a seat on the foot of the bed and flipping to the back. 

Malfoy makes a noise of discomfort. “I don’t trust that book.”

She glances sideways at him, working to keep her face blank. “I know. No more rituals. I promise.”

“Then what good is it?”

She traces her finger down the list, searching for it. “There are more than just rituals in here. There are stories. Spells. Lots of historical research on your condition. All sorts of things.”

“My _condition…”_ Malfoy huffs, mostly to himself.

“Here. Yes. Knew I saw it.” She taps the entry, then flips to the page, somewhere in the middle of the thick tome.

_Redolence & Miasma_

“Loathe as I am to admit it, I don’t know what either of those words mean.” Malfoy’s voice surprises her, so close — he’s moved to loom over her shoulder. 

She glances up at him. “A miasma is a really foul scent. Sort of what you’re describing. And a redolence is the opposite.” 

“Something that smells good?”

She nods. “Yes, exactly—”

_Like you._

She nearly drops the book, the wolf’s deep growl is such a shock. Malfoy jumps too, hand flying out to grab hold of the footboard and steady himself.

“Bleeding _fuck! Stop,”_ he grits out. “Why doesn’t it ever _stop?”_

“I don’t know.” Hermione shifts a bit to the right, slightly unnerved by his anger. He wasn’t calm to begin with, but she’s not certain what pure rage will do this close to the full moon.

She allows a moment for his furious breathing to settle down, then starts to read.

 _“...warning scents ... in the day as opposed to night_ — no .... _used to deter other predators_ — no, no.”

_“Granger...”_

“Wait — here. Here, I’ve got it.” She taps the page fervently. _“Miasma, in this sense, refers to the aromatic residue left by other wolves. It is designed by nature to smell extremely unpleasant, thus alerting the wolf to potential threats.”_

“Gathered that on my own, thanks.”

She continues over him, undeterred. _“The olfactory glands of werewolves are much different from humans. A common misconception suggests that wolves maintain a hyperactive sense of smell, when in fact the opposite is true. Their olfactory senses operate on a spectrum with only two extremes — that of the highly unappealing, or the enemy as it were, and that of the familiar, these being the members of their pack. Family will often have a slightly pleasant aroma, but no scent is stronger or more appealing to the werewolf than that of its paramour...”_ She trails off, feeling color flood her cheeks. Has to clear her throat to finish off the paragraph. _“This is known as the redolence. A werewolf, especially when transformed, can catch this scent from miles away. To their senses, all else in between is dulled and unremarkable.”_

Malfoy doesn’t speak for a few long moments, and she doesn’t let herself look up from the book while she waits.

Then, finally, “And this helps how?”

She turns the page, further skimming the text that follows. 

When she finds it, she doesn’t read it aloud. Malfoy shifts where he stands in the ensuing silence, and she can feel his discomfort growing.

The same way he must feel the sudden, uncertain flutter in her chest.

“What is it?” he demands, running out of patience.

“I...” Hermione fumbles for words. “It’s — well...”

_“Granger.”_

“It says that you have your own scent as well.”

She can practically hear him rolling his eyes. “Imagine that.”

“It says...” There must be a way to word it differently, but nothing comes to mind. Eventually, she just has to force it out. “It says you can... _mark_ me with it.”

Malfoy goes very still next to her. 

When he speaks, his voice is clipped. Highly controlled. It’s like he forgets she can feel the way his heart is pounding.

“And what exactly does that mean?”

She lets the book fall shut in her lap. “I’m not sure. It doesn’t elaborate.”

Malfoy lets go of the bedpost, moving away from her again. 

“Maybe...” she offers, nervously tracing the cover’s edge, her eyes fixed dead ahead on the wall. “Maybe it means with your presence. Maybe just being near me might be enough to overpower it.”

“This room still reeks of him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

She can’t help a scoff. “I’m sure it takes longer than five minutes.” 

A low rumble of thunder rolls across the sky outside the window, filling the silence that ensues. Sporadic droplets of rain start striking the glass.

Malfoy sighs. “It doesn’t even matter. All it wanted was for me to make sure you’re still breathing.” 

She tries to immediately suffocate the bizarre little flare of disappointment she feels, hoping to god he doesn’t feel it too. “Yeah,” she says quietly, still not looking at him. “Still breathing.”

“Then I should go.”

_Stay._

It’s not a suggestion, it’s a threat. Ripping through both their minds the instant Malfoy takes a step towards the door.

He stops dead, hissing out a sharp breath.

“I don’t think it will let you.” 

_“Let me?”_ he practically growls, losing any calm he managed to work up. “No — no, no, this thing doesn’t get to _let me_ do _anything_. It may own a night of my life every month, but it does _not_ own me—”

“You can stay. I don’t mind,” she says plainly, finding no use in pretending. Standing, she sets the book down on the dresser. “I’m just going to change. I can’t sleep in jeans.”

Malfoy stares at her, caught off guard, his eyes following as she crosses the room to her wardrobe.

“What?” he asks, like he thinks he heard wrong.

“Jeans. They’re uncomfortable — I can’t sleep in them.” She works to keep her tone nonchalant as she sifts through her clothes. “Did you want to change too? I could probably find something for you.”

When she looks back at him, his mouth is slightly ajar. He’s just standing there in the middle of the room, looking suddenly lost and out of place.

“No?” she prompts.

He blinks and seems to come back to himself. “No.”

“Alright. I’ll just be a minute.” 

Once in the bathroom, she realizes she didn’t really think her choices through — an old t-shirt of her dad’s and a pair of shorts. Not exactly modest, but also not exactly appealing. 

She stops to wonder why she really cares about being either.

Malfoy hasn’t moved so much as an inch by the time she returns, arms crossed again — stiff as a statue. She feels her cheeks grow hot when his eyes widen a little at the sight of her, one brow arching up. 

“Here,” she says, moving quickly to the bed and starting to gather up pillows. “I can get you some blankets as well.” 

But when she tosses a pillow in his direction, Malfoy reaches out and catches it in his fist — reflexes quick as a flash.

For a moment, they stare at one another. She can’t read his expression.

“What?”

“I don’t sleep on floors.”

It’s something she should’ve expected him to say, given who he is. She’s not sure why it puts her off so much, but her tone comes out sour as a lemon. “Would you rather sleep outside?” 

Malfoy raises an eyebrow, glancing sideways at the window. The rain is falling hard now, a perfect punctuation to her sarcasm.

“No,” he says simply.

“Then the floor will have to be good enough for you.”

He tosses the pillow back against the headboard. “Granger, your bed is enormous.” 

“So?” she demands, ignoring the little flare of curiosity his implication coaxes to life. 

“So learn to share.”

It’s a statement that’s somehow both thrilling and unbelievable, because —

“You?” She can’t help a scoff. _“You’re_ telling _me_ to share? When have _you_ ever shared anything?”

Malfoy smirks — the first time she’s seen the familiar expression all night. It must be some sort of record. 

“I don’t share,” he concedes, even as he stalks around to the other side of the bed. “But no one expects me to. I’m not the type.”

She stares as he toes off his shoes, yanking aside the covers and slipping into the bed like he owns it.

“You, on the other hand,” he says, rolling his shoulders around until he’s comfortable. “Well, it’s almost required, isn’t it?”

For a long moment, she can only gawk at him. Malfoy, laying in her bed and telling her to be gracious about it.

Malfoy. Laying in her bed…

She swallows the sudden knot that forms in her throat, dropping the argument and turning to switch off the lamp. But when she slides in next to him, she takes care to lay as far to the edge as she can, leaving almost a full foot gap between them.

The silence is deafening.

It feels endless, the amount of minutes she spends staring at the ceiling, listening to every breath he takes.

She’s far too conscious of the way his pulse overlaps hers inside her head — the trepidation she feels in the pit of her stomach, some of it his, some her own. Malfoy talks a good game, but he’s as nervous as she is, and at least she knows it. 

There’s no logical explanation for asking him to stay. Nothing that isn’t drastically outweighed by reasons she shouldn’t have.

She shifts beneath the sheets, careful about the angle of her legs — so, so careful not to touch him by mistake.

Sleep is evidently out of the question.

For Malfoy, too. She can sense his restlessness. Can feel the way he’s forcing each breath to come and go at an even pace. 

It isn’t long before the silence becomes too much. 

“It was him, wasn’t it?” she asks the ceiling. 

“What?”

“Greyback.” She doesn’t phrase it like a question. It no longer feels like one. “He’s the one who bit you.” 

Malfoy turns away from her to face the wall, the movement tugging on the covers. “What does it matter?” he mutters — the closest thing to a confirmation she thinks she’ll ever get.

“I guess it doesn’t. It’s just the only reason I can imagine his scent would bother you so much.”

Malfoy makes a sound like a hiss. “It _bothers_ me because it’s disgusting.”

“Is it getting any better?” She toys with the zipper on the duvet cover, just to give her fingers something to do. “With you being near me? Has it helped at all?”

Malfoy hesitates for a moment before answering, his tone clipped. “Not that I can tell.”

“Maybe...” The words find their way up her throat before she has even the slightest chance to think them through. By pure instinct. “Maybe...if you held me?”

She feels the way Malfoy’s lungs spasm around his next breath. Feels it stop him short, scattering his thoughts like a Confundus Charm.

“What?” he breathes, sounding incredulous.

Her cheeks flush with blood, and for a moment she can’t speak, she’s so mortified.

“I...” she fumbles, rushing to pick up the pieces. “I just mean that — well, if...if it’s based on proximity — maybe it would go faster.” And she turns to face the opposite direction, curling into herself as though she can hide from her own words. “Just forget it.”

Malfoy lets her stew in the silence a long while, merciless.

Then, in a voice wrought with disbelief and implications, he says it again. Just to solidify her humiliation.

“You want me to hold you?”

She’s grateful for the surge of defensiveness. It makes it easier to speak. _“No,_ Malfoy. I don’t want you to hold me — I want to know that I’m not walking around wearing the scent of a mass-murderer. Surely you can understand the difference.”

Every moment that follows is completely unexpected.

One minute she’s lying there, bright scarlet with shame, and the next the covers are shifting again as Malfoy starts to turn around. 

She holds her breath, refusing to glance his way — expecting all manner of teasing and torment. 

Instead, she feels the sudden warmth of his hand, inexplicably snaking around her waist. 

She barely has the chance to take a breath of surprise — it’s quickly forced into a gasp as Malfoy tightens his hold and drags her sharply back against him.

Heat fans out across her skin where they’re suddenly connected, the large, warm expanse of his chest searing her shoulder blades through the fabric between them.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” Malfoy grits out, arrogant tone totally at odds with the position he’s put them in. His breath ghosts across the nape of her neck as he speaks. “But it’s hard to know the difference after what you said two weeks ago.”

Her heart is already pounding. His words just shift it into overdrive.

She doesn’t ask stupid questions. Knows exactly what he’s talking about.

“I...” she stutters, swallowing thickly. “I was just testing something.”

“Testing what, exactly?” His arm is heavy, belted across her. Every breath she takes makes her rib cage expand and press against it.

Lying seems far too dangerous in this moment. “How much control I have.” 

Malfoy huffs quietly, warming her skin. “Over me?”

She doesn’t answer.

“There’s no point,” he says. Bitterness drips from every word. “I don’t believe either one of us has any control whatsoever. Not over this.”

It’s taking all of her concentration to ignore the way his body molds against hers. Angles that shouldn’t fit but do. 

She’s desperate to change the subject.

“He knew I was a paramour.”

Malfoy’s thrown by this, if his silence is anything to go by.

“Greyback,” she adds, very aware of the way he tenses up at the name. “He knew about you and I.”

Malfoy just breathes out.

“He said he had a paramour once, too.” Her voice has dropped to a whisper — she wonders if he can feel the way she’s shaking. Just barely. “He told me he...”

“What?” he demands after seconds go by.

“He told me he killed her and — and _ate_ her.” There’s a tremor in her voice too, much to her shame.

Malfoy’s gone so still behind her she thinks he might be holding his breath.

“He said that?” he asks, voice quiet and even. Carefully controlled.

She nods before she considers how close together they are, the back of her head grazing his chin.

“Is that...something I need to worry about?”

Evidently, this is a question she should never have asked.

All at once, Malfoy tenses up, the arm coiled around her constricting like a python. She hears and feels his cut gasp just before he goes still again, the strange spasm making her pulse race.

She senses fear and helplessness bleeding through the bond and doesn’t understand.

“Malfoy?” she whispers, timid.

It isn’t Malfoy who answers.

“If you think for one second...” the low voice growls, and she swears her pulse stops dead — “...that I would _ever...”_

The arm around her waist suddenly shifts, twisting her sharply onto her back — and she knows what she’s going to see even before his dark shadow looms over her, hands braced beside her shoulders, caging her in.

His eyes are black as ink.

“You are _sorely_ mistaken.”

A chill races down her spine as she stares up into those dark depths. Even the expression on his face doesn’t look like him. Everything’s changed.

_Bisect..._

The word echoes inside her head like a warning.

She forces herself to speak. 

“You’re — you’re the wolf, aren’t you?” It’s almost pathetic, how meek she sounds.

That foreign voice gives a low hum of approval, black eyes searching hers. “I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time.”

She exhales sharply, nervous lungs suddenly fighting for air. The way she’s trapped beneath him — it’s the same helplessness she felt with Greyback. The same uselessness. 

And yet, in a movement almost shocking, the wolf shifts, bracing his weight on one arm in order to rest his palm on her chest.

She gasps and holds her breath. 

“You’re shaking,” he says, tone suddenly almost tender, and slowly he adds pressure, palm bearing down until she’s forced to exhale. “Breathe,” he coaxes. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Her whisper is a nervous rush. “Where’s Malfoy?” 

“I’ve pushed him aside,” he says, almost casual. “This close to a full moon, it’s relatively easy. And he was doing everything wrong.” 

She opens her mouth only to shut it again, at a loss. The wolf takes that opportunity to lift his hand from her chest, delicately sweeping the hair off her forehead and tucking it behind her ear.

The affection confounds her.

He gathers a deep breath, hissing on the exhale as those black eyes fall shut. “I can’t stand the smell of that _thing_ on you.”

And it’s then that she feels it, crawling across the bond to her. The clearest sentiment she’s encountered yet. 

It’s possessive and feral and somewhat frightening, but she knows it for what it is. Devotion.

It manifests low in her stomach — a steady, pulsing warmth — and she doesn’t even notice her heartbeat evening out. Slowing to a drowsy thud deep in her chest.

The wolf does.

“There, now,” he murmurs, leaning down those last critical inches to rest his forehead against hers. “So much better.”

She breathes out slowly, the way her eyes fall shut taking her by surprise.

“You’re not going to hurt me.” It was meant as a question but it doesn’t sound like one.

The wolf gives that satisfied hum again, thumb brushing across her cheek. “No.”

Her senses betray her slowly — little walls that fall one by one. At first it’s just acknowledging the pleasant warmth of his forehead against hers. Then, feeling the pull — a craving she can’t quite place. Then it’s pressing her forehead back against his, and all too soon she’s reaching for him.

Like her body’s been taken over by something else.

The wolf stops her halfway, hands wrapping around her wrists and pressing them softly back against the pillows. A dark, teasing laugh ghosts across her skin as he pulls his head back and opens those bottomless eyes. “Oh, you’re so good. Very good.” And he releases one wrist to trace her jaw with his thumb. “But I’m afraid your Malfoy’s made some very silly rules about what I can and can’t do.”

She feels dazed. Almost drunk. “What?”

“You give in to your instincts beautifully. But for now they’ll have to wait. He wants back in.”

“I — but Malfoy...” She’s not even sure what she’s trying to say at this point.

The wolf’s smile is almost fond. “Don’t let him rile you. He’s just afraid of what he doesn’t understand.” One more brush of that thumb across her cheek. “You should know, though — he knows exactly how to get rid of it.”

She blinks up at him, confused and grappling with this strange and sudden fear of letting him leave. “What?”

“Your Malfoy — he knows how to cut through the stench of that mongrel. He’s just afraid.”

“How?”

He smiles again, indulgent. “Ask him.”

Not seconds later, the darkness bleeds from his eyes and she’s looking up at Malfoy. 

Malfoy, whose face is stricken — horrified.

He yanks himself away, throwing the covers off and sitting back. Sweeping desperate hands through his hair. “Fucking hell, I can’t do this. Fucking _Merlin. Fuck._ It isn’t fair.”

She watches in silence, frozen where she lays for several long moments before she can gather her wits enough to rise up onto her elbows.

Malfoy’s head is in his hands, fingers massaging bruises into his brow bone. 

“I thought...” she whispers, slowly slipping out of the delirium. “I thought he would be violent. Cruel.”

He seems to let her words sink in for a moment before yanking his hands away to glare at her. “Well, isn’t it wonderful that my fucking _parasite_ exceeded your expectations?”

“You’re blaming me for this?”

He sweeps a furious hand out wide. “You didn’t _do_ anything! You were just going to let it happen.”

She sits up fully now, anger clearing what’s left of the fog from her mind. “Don’t presume to know what I would and would not have let happen.” 

“You gave in like it was nothing,” Malfoy spits, sweeping his legs aside to sit at the foot of the bed, facing away from her. He drops his head back into his hands, elbows braced on his knees. “I thought you wanted to be rid of this.”

Some of her anger fades in the wake of his tone — so defeated.

“I thought we’d both come to the conclusion that there’s no escaping it.”

“So you’re just giving up?” he grits out, refusing to look at her.

She hesitates, turning it over in her mind.

“I can’t give up when there’s nothing to fight.” 

Malfoy’s jaw tightens, and when he shakes his head it’s like he’s shaking it at the world.

“It’s only logical,” she murmurs — an afterthought.

 _“Fuck_ your logic.”

A long silence passes between them after that, only the rain hitting the roof to disturb it. Studying his slumped form, she debates whether or not to push him further.

It takes a moment to remind herself that she is not in the business of pitying Malfoy.

And she’s far too curious about the truth.

“He said you knew.” She sits forward. “How to get rid of Greyback’s scent.”

Malfoy huffs darkly. _“It_ was lying.”

“Somehow I don’t think so.”

He tenses up. “It was. I don’t know how.” 

“I think you do.”

“I _don’t,”_ he hisses. 

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not fucking lying!”

“What are you afraid of, Malfoy?” She can feel him start to boil over.

“Granger, if you don’t _shut your mouth—”_

“So you are afraid.”

_“Granger—”_

“Too afraid to fix it even though you know how.” She scoffs. “My god, that’s—“

A glass on her desk shatters — unintentional wandless magic in his rage — and suddenly Malfoy whips around to face her, lunging forward onto his hands. “You want to see?” he demands, crawling across the bed towards her until she’s crowded up against the headboard. “You really want to know how?”

“Yes,” she says, grateful she’s able to keep her voice steady for once. Even with his face inches from hers, twisted by fury.

Malfoy narrows his eyes and bears his teeth, shaking his head again like he can’t fathom her stupidity. A moment later one of his hands fists into the curls at the back of her skull, hard and shocking enough to make her eyes water. A gasp wrenches out of her throat.

“This is on you, then,” he seethes, yanking her head back — tipping her chin toward the ceiling and exposing her neck. _“Hold fucking still.”_

She couldn’t move if she wanted to.

Malfoy hesitates only a moment, puffing out a furious breath as though to steady himself. “Such a bitch...” he murmurs, grip tightening, and seconds later he surges forward.

His lips find the flesh of her throat angrily — parting against her skin and dragging down towards her collarbone with a vengeance.

Her gasp gets caught. Strangled. Her eyes widen at the ceiling.

But then Malfoy finds the spot where her pulse hammers, wildly pumping blood through her veins, and he tugs it between his teeth.

It’s not her fault.

No one in their right mind could fight something that feels so good. 

Her eyes fall shut and a moan tumbles off her lips, her hand a mirror image of his as it snakes around his neck to tangle in his hair.

Malfoy hisses against her, and she feels the heat as it flares up in his gut, twisting and tangling with hers. He presses forward, her body flush with the headboard now, his mouth hot as it traces a line up along her jugular. 

A dark laugh echoes through their minds. Satisfied.

But Malfoy doesn’t stop. She feels and knows that he can’t — has no ability to pull himself away. No resistance left. 

She tries to guide her fingers through his hair in a way that’s reassuring. 

He groans into her skin, free hand slipping around her lower back to drag her up against him as his lips part just beneath her jaw. The first swipe of his tongue is cautious. Uncertain.

And yet somehow, in that moment, she tastes what he tastes. Tastes something indescribable and addictive. Malfoy gasps and has to taste it again, laving his tongue along her jaw. It sends an electric pulse through her, every muscle between her thighs clenching as she chokes on another gasp.

_“Please...”_

For a moment, she doesn’t even realize she’s said it.

Malfoy doesn’t hesitate. He frees her hair from his punishing grip, both hands sliding down to the backs of her thighs and dragging her away from the headboard. He pulls her with him while he crawls backward, lips never once leaving her skin as he lies her down on her back.

“This is wrong,” he says, even as he kisses his way from collarbone to chin. “This is _wrong.”_

She lets her eyes slip open, sleepy and drugged as they focus on him — hovering over her, his gaze fixed on her mouth.

“I agree,” she breathes. 

He nods and so does she, his nose brushing against hers, panting breaths warming her skin. 

Then, with a growl — _“Fuck it,”_ — his mouth lands on hers.

Something ruptures in her brain. That’s what it feels like. The synapses rip apart, misfiring and all but melting down to nothing in the wake of this sensation.

It feels like breathing for the first time. Like she’s been holding her breath for seventeen years.

And she’s hungry. _So_ hungry for this air. For the way it fills her lungs.

She lets him press her down into the mattress — lets his hips slide between her thighs, gasping into his mouth at the friction.

“Just for a second,” he whispers, breathless, his tongue flicking against hers.

“Yeah.” She nods against him. 

“Then we have to stop.”

“Yes.”

He takes her bottom lip between his teeth, dragging it out slowly — torturously — before diving back in. Sucking on her tongue. Bruising her mouth.

She feels it — the way he gets hard. But not just against her. She feels the inexplicable sensation between her own legs, fighting with her own empty sort of throb. 

He swallows her sharp gasp, and then he’s yanking himself away. A feeling like ripping muscle away from bone. Painful. Abrupt.

“We’re fucked,” he whispers, panting. His face is flushed and his eyes wide, lips swollen. “We’re so fucked.”

She nods, fighting to control her own breathing. “Yeah.”

Malfoy sits there in silence for a moment, trying to gather himself before he gets up off the bed, yanking his shoes on.

There’s no question. He’s leaving. He has to, or they both know they’ll do something stupid.

But just as he reaches the door, the question fights free, making him pause.

“Is it gone?” 

His eyes meet hers across the darkness.

“Greyback?” she whispers.

Malfoy huffs and pulls the door open. 

“The only thing on you right now is me.”


	15. Curses / Creeds

The full moon comes and goes, and she waits all night to feel something. Anything.

Her theory proves correct after a deeper dive into the literature. 

  
_Physical sensations are commonly known to fade with distance. Only incredibly fortified bonds between wolf and paramour have shown evidence of shared pain from kilometers apart._

_Emotional sensations, on the other hand, have a far greater proverbial wingspan._

  
At the very least, this explains why she abruptly bursts into tears at the breakfast table the following morning. For the rest of the holiday, the only thing she senses from Malfoy is misery.

* * *

It isn’t until the car ride to London that she feels the first physical twinge — halfway to King’s Cross Station. 

Having gone so many days without it, the itch feels commonplace at first. She scratches casually at her forearm through her sleeve, watching traffic out the window. 

But every stoplight, every tunnel — every lane change that brings her closer to him teases that itch into something that twists and stings. A burning like a rash she can’t see. 

Twice, her mother glances back through the rear view and catches the distraught look on her face. Has to ask if everything’s alright.

“Just fine,” she says, even as her fingernails dig into her flesh. 

It’s the left arm.

Malfoy’s done something incredibly stupid.

* * *

  
She avoids him at all costs on the train, because she doesn't know what to say. She's still processing what she now knows to be a fact. 

The burning beneath her skin is so concentrated she could trace the form of that skeletal snake with her eyes closed, just by following the pain. 

He's taken the Mark. 

He's so much worse than what he was now. No longer just the spoiled son of a Death Eater. Now he doesn't speak their colors, he wears them. 

She has a million more reasons to hate him. 

Which makes it hard to reconcile the feeling in her gut. It's not hate. There's anger, certainly — but there's also something else. Something far more frightening — something with consequences. 

Betrayal. That's what it is. 

And how does she make sense of that?

Harry and Ron try to talk through the attack on the Burrows, but she has no head for it. She's far too aware of Malfoy's drowsy pulse, just a few cars away. It feels like it's the first sleep he's had in days.

_Well,_ she thinks. _Then he'd best make the most of it._

She plans to confront him first chance she gets.

And she's not about to be polite. 

* * *

She and a few other Gryffindors elect to unpack their trunks before the welcome-back feast, and when she gets to the dormitory there's a book she doesn't recognize lying on her bed.

Unwrapping her scarf from around her neck, she steps up to the four-poster, gingerly running a hand over its faded black cover.

_The Will & The Way_

The off-red, glossy sheen of the letters makes them look like muscle exposed under flesh. And when she lifts the thick tome, a note slips free.

_“Something to consider…"_ it reads. Handwriting that looks to belong to Tonks. It must've been delivered over the holiday.

She strokes a thumb over the spine, thinking aloud. “What makes you different from the others?”

Some books have been known to answer, but this one doesn't. It just stares up at her, black cover, black pages — curiously heavy.

The feast isn't for an hour.

She sheds her coat and shoes, curling up against the headboard with it. The pages are old, crinkling as she opens to what looks like a dedication.

_For the will to tie yourself,_   
_and the way to lace the bonds._

Beyond that page is an index comprised of only two sections.

I. Black Rituals  
 _to bind the flesh._

II. Red Rituals   
_to bind the soul._

She doesn't realize she's biting down on the inside of her cheek until it starts to bleed.

The book gets swiftly tucked under her mattress, but its words echo in her head all the way down the Grand Staircase, and all through dinner.

She avoids his eyes from across the Great Hall, feeling their weight but intending to choose her own battlefield. This — here — isn't it. 

But what an experience it is to feel his mounting frustration. With every passing minute she avoids his gaze, a prickling discomfort grows in the pit of her stomach. It’s the first time they’ve been in the same room since that night, and he can’t stand it.  
  
_Good,_ she thinks. He should be uncomfortable. He knows what he's done. 

_Look at me,_ she imagines him saying, over and over again as she sips her pumpkin juice. _Look at me. Look at me!_

She can picture his voice so clearly, it almost feels real. 

_Look at me. _

She doesn't. She heads off to bed early without a glance in his direction, making it all the way across the Hall to the doors before his confused panic reaches a level jarring enough to make her trip over her own feet. She's lucky she's out of eyeshot by the time it does. No one sees.

No one but—

“Hermione, hi!” Neville looks to be just arriving for the feast. “You alright there?” He helps her steady herself. 

“Thanks, yeah. Two left feet.” She forces a smile. “How was your holiday? I missed you at the feast.”

Neville’s own smile is sheepish as he gestures behind himself towards the stairs.

“Was checking on the Wolfsbane. You — you should see it. Really, you should.” He stumbles over words in his excitement. “It’s —”

“Amazing?” she offers, and now her grin is genuine.

He blushes and nods. “Yeah. Amazing.”

“Well, enjoy your dinner. Harry and Ron are still in the thick of it — you'll have company. I'm just a bit tired.” She moves to step past him.

“Hermione?’" And now, suddenly, he sounds very uncertain. 

“Mm?" When she glances over her shoulder, she finds him fiddling with the too-long sleeves of his jumper.

“Are... I — it’s just…”

"What's wrong?”

He glances up at her quickly before looking to the ground again. "I — I know I said it wasn't my business, but I…”

She takes a deep breath.

“Well, I did some reading over the holiday. Just because I was curious. And I…”

"Neville, what is it?"

He appears to force himself to meet her eyes, wincing as he speaks. “Are — are you a paramour?”

She lets that word linger in the air between them for a long moment.

It was only a matter of time. 

But Neville's blush darkens every second she waits to speak, so she puffs out a breath and puts it in simple terms. 

“Quite a mess, isn't it?”

A sad look passes over his face, as though he didn't expect to be right. He shuffles his feet, uncertain. “What — what can I do?”

The words soften the tension in her shoulders. If she had to choose anyone to know the full truth, it'd be Neville.

She offers him a solemn smile and reaches out to squeeze his arm. “You don't need to do anything. You've already helped so much with the Wolfsbane.”

“But…it’s _Malfoy—”_

“I'll be alright.” She squeezes again, then lets go. “Thank you, though. I'm glad you know.”

“Does anyone else?”

She huffs and shrugs. “Adrian Pucey, if you can believe it.”

Neville's ears turn a little pink even as his brows scrunch together. “What does he have to do with it?” 

“I've no idea.” She shrugs again, turning back towards the stairs. “Goodnight, Neville.”

His voice drips with concern from behind her. “Goodnight.”

* * *

  
A few hours bleed by, and she lies in bed restless. 

That black book is still under the mattress, somehow more frightening than any of the others — and she wonders when she started to fear knowledge over craving it.

Malfoy is keeping her awake. She can feel him tossing and turning, utterly tense. Something has him wired, and though she apparently can’t read his thoughts, she can read the ache in her own jaw from the way he's grinding his teeth.

_What?_ she demands inside her head, wondering if the wolf might answer instead.

The wolf…

Strange, the part of her that just might welcome the dark rasp of his voice right now.

Malfoy shifts positions again, rolling onto his stomach and clenching his fists. He's going to keep her up all night. 

“Fine,” she whispers aloud, throwing off the covers. 

She'll confront him right now. Get this over with.

She changes back out of her pajamas, tugging on her shoes and grabbing her wand off the nightstand. At the very least, she knows exactly how to get him out of bed. 

Silently, she leaves Gryffindor Tower and heads down the stairs in the dark. She avoids Prefect routes and sleeping portraits as best she can, intending to make her way towards the Room of Requirement. Once there, she figures she'll hold her breath again until he—

A hand shoots out from the pitch black, taking hold of her arm.

She bites back on a scream as it pulls her around the corner into an empty corridor. The dim, flickering light of a distant torch barely illuminates Malfoy's form, evidently already out of bed.

Her first instinct is to shove him away, putting a few offended feet of distance between them. “You’re lucky I didn't hex you!’" she hisses. “Sneaking up like that."

Malfoy huffs, rolling those tired eyes. “I felt you walking. You should've felt me. Be more observant.”

“I don't sense every step you take.” Her heart rate starts sinking slowly to a calmer level, and she crosses her arms, leaning back against the wall beside one of those large tapestries that drapes over the window alcove. “That would be absurd.”

He scoffs, crossing his arms like he’s mirroring her. “As if any of this _isn't_ absurd.” 

She bites her tongue, glancing over his shoulder at the opposite wall because he's not wrong.

Malfoy steps to the side, putting himself back in her line of sight. Forcing her to look at him. “You ignored me at dinner.”

Her brows lift to her hairline. “Oh? I'm sorry, what was it you wanted? A few coy smiles? A wave? Maybe even a wink?” 

He ignores her sarcasm. “You're angry about something.”

“Ten points to Slytherin.” 

Malfoy shakes his head, eyes narrowing with derision. “You're always angry about something, aren't you?” 

“Don't act like you don't know.” 

“Know what?” he asks, because evidently he has the nerve.

But he doesn't get to play with her. She is not a toy.

Reaching out, quick as a flash, she takes hold of his left arm and yanks it towards her. Hisses, “This is why I'm angry,” as she forces up his sleeve before he can stop her.

Even in the dim light, the Dark Mark's inky outlines are clear, faded snake's body writhing beneath his skin. Malfoy’s breath hitches. Her eyes dart back to his.

_“Coward,”_ she spits, shoving it back towards him.

He drags the sleeve down immediately, his fury surging across the bond. “Oh, don't even _try_ to play that card.”

“It's not a—”

“The saint. The better half. The _good girl,”_ he seethes, furious fingers re-buttoning the cuff at his wrist. “You're no fucking better than me. You don't know my situation. My life—” 

“I know you're a Death Eater,” she fires back, pushing off the wall. “What more is there to know than that?” And she stretches onto her tiptoes to get in his face. “Frankly, I’m _disgusted_ to be tied to you.”

Malfoy's eyes flit back and forth between hers, lit like a furnace with rage as he considers which response might sting the most.

“You didn't seem disgusted," he says after a long moment, just a whisper. “You let me put my mouth all over you, and you didn't seem disgusted.” His eyes tighten. “You fucking _liked_ it.”

She knows he can feel the spark of humiliation in her — rushes to cover it up. “You have the wolf to thank for that. And do you know?" She bares her teeth to deliver a sting of her own. “I think I prefer him to you.”

Malfoy never gets the chance to respond. There's only the briefest flicker in his eyes — fury mixed with panic — before they flood with black. Like ink has spilled. Quickly. Easily.

His panic gets smeared over by a strange, dark joy. And the wolf steps towards her in earnest.

“Really?” asks that low voice, suddenly breathless and exhilarated as he backs her up against the wall.

Her heart starts pounding in her ears. “I—” she gasps and stammers, cowering in his shadow as he crowds her, palms flattening against the flagstone on either side of her head. “I thought you could only do this before the full moon.”

The wolf smiles — a grin more feral than Malfoy's. Raw. “I can do a lot of things when it comes to you.”

She tries to slow her breathing. In no way expected to come face to face with him again so soon.

“You're not afraid of me, are you?” He sounds breathless. Excited. One hand separates from the wall to run its fingers through her hair. “You prefer me, don't you?” he coaxes, like he's desperate to hear her say it again. 

Hermione gathers an unsteady breath, trying to calm her nerves. Trying to think straight. “I—”

“Don't think too much,” he murmurs, leaning closer. “Say what you said instinctively, yes?” He nods and strokes her curls. “Instinct is honesty.” 

Her instincts aren't even coherent. Can't tell her whether to be afraid or not. And yet, there's life in the glossy black depths of the wolf's eyes if she looks closely enough. Something familiar and warm.

Something that helps her find her words.

“I — I think I do, yes.” 

The wolf hums the way one does after stepping into a bath, eyes falling shut. His warm breath ghosts across her face as he presses his forehead to hers like he did before. “I prefer you,” he breathes. “I prefer you to _everything_. To the world. To the breath in my lungs.”

Her pulse starts to thud again, confused. She's never heard words like those before. Words that should terrify her.

And yet, the response they trigger is nothing like fear. It's curiosity. Wonder. Hunger. Any number of things, but not fear.

She speaks without meaning to — the only thing she can think to say. 

“Thank you.”

Light suddenly fans out across the wall from the corner of the corridor. The wand of a Prefect patrolling the halls.

But the wolf is quicker to react then she is, sweeping aside the tapestry to her left. He takes her swiftly by the waist and drags her behind it, stepping back into the alcove until the tapestry falls into place.

Pulled against him, her shoulders to his chest, she watches the light grow brighter through the gap between the floor and the tapestry's edge. Watches the shadows of the Prefect's feet pass by.

"Shh..." the wolf whispers in her ear without needing to. 

In truth, she's more nervous being pressed against him this way than she is about getting caught out of bed by a Prefect.

"They'll patrol these corridors for half an hour," she whispers once the light passes them by.

"Then I suppose we're stuck," he murmurs, a grin in his voice. "Wouldn't want to get you in any trouble."

Her pulse accelerates, no doubt giving away the uncertain flicker of curious anticipation she feels. Much like she felt with him before.

"Is Malfoy trying to get back in?"

It's a strange question — difficult to phrase.

"Always," purrs the wolf. "He thinks he has more right to this body than I do." A soft laugh whispers past her ear. "And he said it himself, didn't he — he doesn't share." His hand shifts where it rests on her waist. Almost a caress. "But you made such a sweet invitation."

Her breath hitches. Nervous questions flood her brain like a fail-safe.  
  
"Are you — are you really... separate? The two of you?"

Footsteps approach again as the Prefect makes their first pass in the other direction. The wolf waits to answer, chest rising and falling against her with each steady breath. "That depends on what you mean by separate,'' he whispers once the light fades.

"Are you completely different beings? Is there any of him in you?"

He hums in thought. "I'm a part of him. And he is a part of me. In soul, we are not separate. But in creed?" He pauses, huffing another dark laugh. "We are worlds apart."

Her brows draw together, and she doesn't notice the way she relaxes against him — too intrigued. "Creed? How so?"  
  
"He wants to run away. From me, from you. From everything. I would come closer if I could." He tightens his hold on her with the words, pulling her flush against him.

Something flutters in her chest.

"He's afraid to touch you."

She swallows, trying not to trip over her tongue. "And you're not?"

A long silence eclipses them. He breathes out, hot against the back of her neck. And then he leans forward, resting the hard plane of his chin on the curve of her shoulder. "No. I'm not."

His voice vibrates through the thin layer of her shirt, and she has absolutely no choice in that moment but to be honest.

"I'm glad."

She feels the satisfaction spread through him like a wildfire and continues, unable to stop herself.

"I — I don't know why, but I trust you."

He laughs and tucks his nose into the crook of her neck, nuzzling her. "You're smart, that's why. You know what's good for you.''

The words feel like a reward somehow, fanning out inside her head and lighting up her nerve endings. She leans her head back against his chest and doesn't fight it.

Her voice comes out a sigh. "I thought Malfoy had rules." 

He nods against her, smiling into her skin. "Vague, meaningless rules."

"Like what?"

"He's forbidden me to kiss you."

She doesn't even have the chance to analyze everything wrong with the sudden disappointment she feels. The wolf's hand starts to slide down the curve of her waist and over her hip.

"Surely you see the same loopholes that I do?"

The blood starts to race through her veins. His hand glides lower, tracing her thigh through the fabric of her skirt. The light passes again, footsteps launching her heart into her throat.

Now she's nervous to be caught. Now this is something else entirely...

The wolf's voice drops to barely a whisper. "You see them don't you?" His fingers toy with the hem of her skirt, and she suddenly has only a few seconds to grapple with what she's doing.  
  
"I — I think so, yes.''

He hums his approval, the warmth of it sending chills down the length of her. And as the light disappears from behind the tapestry again, his hand slips beneath her skirt. "I knew you'd see it my way." A dark chuckle as he caresses the bare expanse of her inner thigh. "Your mind is beautiful."

Her eyes fall shut, exhale trembling through the silence.

"Malfoy's going to be furious."

His growl is quiet but sharp. "Let him take it out on me, then."

And his hand slides up between her legs — a swift, deliberate sweep across the fabric of her underwear before his fingers find the edge and tug them aside.

Her gasp is louder than it should be at the first touch — the sensation like a spark. He doesn't hesitate, free hand reaching up to cover her mouth.

"Shh..." he whispers again, but those few minutes feel like centuries ago as his fingers stroke down, grazing that epicenter of nerves. She jerks against him, a hot shock of pleasure rocketing up her spine.

His body is there to steady her — keeping her balance as his thumb teases it again, other fingers dipping lower. She can feel the heat of herself through his skin.

"Oh, I'm in trouble, aren't I?" he growls into her neck, growing hard against her backside. "Feel how sensitive you are..."

Every stroke of his fingers is twofold, sensation shooting through her and then through him. And he knows exactly where to touch — where to put pressure, where to ease off. He builds a steady, swirling rhythm, every hitch in his breath matching hers.

The Prefect's footsteps move past again, and she can't even fathom it. She's lost.

She feels nothing like herself.

Minutes pass, and his patience never wanes — a steady, considerate build-up, guiding her towards the edge. No experimenting. Only what he knows feels good. Better than good.

But just as she's approaching the peak, hands clenched into fists at her sides, his body gives a sharp jerk.

Her eyes open and she turns against the hand over her mouth to look at him.

Blue eyes glare back at her.

"Fucking _unbelievable,"_ he hisses, and she can barely comprehend her own panic before his hand slips from her mouth down to her throat, taking hold.

A sharp breath blasts through her lips. She opens her mouth to speak—  
  
"How could you let that happen?" he demands, grip tightening. But just when she expects him to yank his other hand away, he slips a finger inside of her.

Her gasp is choked. Soundless. Heat flares through her bloodstream.

"Why didn't you stop it?'' he grits out, even as he starts to pump it in and out — even as her legs start to tremble.

"Malfoy—" she breathes.

_"Why didn't you stop it?"_

"Why aren't _you?"_

His hand tightens again around her throat, and all at once a second finger joins the first as he tucks his face back into her shoulder. "I _can't."_

It's a growl. A plea. An admission and a confession all at once. And it tips her swiftly over the edge.

Her eyes squeeze shut as she jolts against him, white spots exploding across the backs of her lids. His groan is muffled, phantom orgasm passing through him like an echo.

There's nothing she can do to stop herself. The electricity in her veins hasn't even halfway diminished and every instinct has her twisting in his grip.

His hand slips out from between her legs, her skirt falling back into place as he takes her face in his hands. Like his instincts have betrayed him too.  
  
Like, in that moment, neither of them know to do anything other than meet in the middle.

She crushes her lips to his, hands shaking as they fist in the fabric of his shirt. His grasp desperately at the small of her back, mouth opening to her —

The tapestry gets swept aside, bright wand light exploding into the alcove.

They jerk apart, gasping, and Hermione spins to find the shocked and horrified face of Katie Bell.

_No._

Katie takes two steps back, Prefect's badge glimmering like a threat. "I... " she stammers in disbelief. "I — I'm sorry, I have to report this."

Panic seizes up in every muscle and tendon.

_No. No._

Eyes wide, Katie turns on her heel and starts off down the corridor.

And it all happens so fast.

Malfoy’s questing hand misses her as she rushes forward, unable to stop herself. Unable to think.

She fumbles in her pocket for her wand, yanks it free and takes aim.

A wordless, nameless curse she has no knowledge of bursts forth and strikes Katie in the back. Only, she doesn’t fall. Doesn’t stiffen or trip or turn colors. Doesn’t suffer any of the known consequences of a simple hex.

One moment she’s there, and the next she’s twenty feet in the air above them, dangling without gravity — her mouth open in a soundless scream.


	16. White Lies / Happy Accidents

It takes three professors over an hour to get Katie Bell down from the ceiling, and she screams in silence like she's being torn apart straight up to the moment she passes out.

Hermione had no choice.

She couldn't fix it herself — she's still not even sure what she _did_. And after staring at Katie's slow-turning body for less than a minute, all other options dried up.

"What did you do?" Malfoy asked more than once, voice sort of dazed and horrified. "What the fuck did you do?" 

She had no answer for him. Could only head straight for the nearest portrait — a few corridors away — and ask the watercolor depiction of a lady by a stream to wake Dumbledore.

Dumbledore, who still hasn't spoken a word to her. He stands off to the side of the corridor, hands gently folded over his evening robes, watching Katie Bell as she’s slowly lowered onto a floating cot. 

Madam Pomfrey fusses over her immediately, lifting one of her eyelids and shining the light of her wand back and forth. Professor McGonagall murmurs things in hushed tones to Professor Snape.

And all the while, she and Malfoy are made to stand there and wait.

She can't think of anything to say. Has no words to address the situation — not after the curse, and certainly not before. No, she finds she can't even look at him.

But she feels the state he's in. Unsteady, unsure. Utterly thrown off. By her. By what they did. What _she_ did.

Some idiotic instinct has her glancing down at his right hand, just a foot or so away where he stands next to her.

There's no evidence to the naked eye of what that hand has done. But she knows it. And so does he.

He clenches it into a fist when he catches her staring, and her eyes flit only briefly to his before locking back on Katie Bell.

They're taking her away now. To the Hospital Wing, if not St. Mungo's. She wonders if it really might be bad enough. 

Professor Dumbledore approaches, flocked by McGonagall and Snape. She can't read the serene expression on his face — rather like a mask.

"Miss Granger," he says, voice calm. "Would you and Mr. Malfoy kindly accompany me to my office?" 

* * *

No one sits.

Dumbledore takes a calm stance in front of his desk. McGonagall and Snape hover behind them on opposite sides. Malfoy leans a hip against one of the chairs facing the desk, arms crossed — looking tired and a little bewildered. Which leaves her feeling like she's standing in the center of it all, nothing to do but flex her fingers at her sides. 

"Miss Granger?" Dumbledore prompts at last. It feels like it's been silent for ages.

"I'm sorry," is the only thing she can think to say. "I don't know what curse it was. I reacted instinctively." 

"To what, may I ask?" Dumbledore's voice is far too calm, considering she's almost just killed one of his students. It grates on her nerves.

She flexes her fingers again and thinks very carefully about telling the truth.

But she can feel Malfoy's eyes on her, and the words — real words, with real consequences — lodge in her throat.

The lie, on the other hand — it slides out like butter.

"Katie overheard Malfoy and I discussing his condition.”

Malfoy goes stiff in her periphery. 

"His condition?" Professor McGonagall echoes.

Hermione keeps her eyes on Dumbledore as she speaks. "I'm not sure if you know, Professor — but Malfoy is—” 

“I can speak for myself, thanks Granger," Malfoy cuts in suddenly, tone biting.

She glances sideways at him, meeting his furious stare. Makes a gesture that says, _‘go on, then.’_

His eyes tighten. "A werewolf," he spits after a long pause. "Since evidently it’s everyone's business.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to count the ticks of the clock on Dumbledore’s desk.

“Albus?” McGonagall murmurs when she can manage it, aghast. 

Dumbledore’s face remains as passive as ever, and Hermione doesn’t fail to notice that he’s still looking at her. “Mr. Malfoy informed me at the start of term.” 

Another long pause — and then McGonagall does something unexpected. The look on Malfoy’s face as she suddenly crosses to him suggests she’s transfigured herself into some sort of enormous, feral bird. Her gaze is wrought with concern, hands tender as they take hold of his shoulders. 

“Good heavens,” she breathes, searching his eyes — so clearly trying to think of a way to approach it with tact. “How has this happened? Are you — how are you coping? Are you alright?”

Hermione can feel Malfoy’s incredulity. Feel the strange twinge of confusion — like he’s never been approached this way in his life and he doesn’t know how to respond.

And despite everything, it makes her chest ache. 

“I’m fine,” he mutters at last, stiff with discomfort. It’s clear he intends to ignore the other question.

McGonagall lets him go, taking a step back and folding her hands. She hovers for a moment, looking at him as though there’s more she wants to say or do. Then, with a breath, she nods gravely and returns to the corner behind Hermione.

Snape, through all of this, is notably silent.

And Dumbledore’s eyes are still fixed on her when she glances back. He twists a finger around and around the edge of his beard, curling the long strands as he considers something. Finally, he asks what she thinks he’s been planning to ask from the moment they entered his office.

“And how did you get yourself tangled up in this, Miss Granger?”

It’s surprising how quickly the urge to lie again swells up inside of her. Her mind starts to rapidly skim through possibilities, searching for something he might believe.

But Malfoy — with quite a surge of indignation — decides to take back the reins she stole from him. “She’s a paramour.”  
  
And when her gaze whips to the side, eyes wide, he’s already looking at her.

 _“My_ paramour,” he amends after a moment, expression complicated. 

Professor McGonagall sucks in a sharp breath. Murmurs, “Good heavens,” once again in a hush.

Dumbledore hums in thought, and looking back to him, Hermione gets the feeling he already knew. 

“Fascinating,” he says. 

“Headmaster,” Snape speaks up suddenly, deep voice jarring. “Might it be prudent to make adjustments to Miss Bell’s memory in light of this? Assuming, of course, she recovers.”

She resists the urge to glance over her shoulder at him, surprised his first suggestion doesn’t have something to do with punishment. 

“This is not the sort of information we’d want spreading about the school.” 

Dumbledore lifts an eyebrow.

“And you are certain, Miss Granger, that Miss Bell overheard you?”

She feels a flicker of relief. Never expected an outcome to present itself in which no one learns the real truth. But she takes care not to spring at it with too much fervor.

“Yes,” she says evenly. “She seemed shocked. Even a little frightened. I wouldn’t have reacted the way I did otherwise.” 

She’s surprised to see Malfoy nodding out the corner of her eye. 

“She heard everything,” he says when Dumbledore’s gaze shifts to him. “It’s impossible she missed it.”

Encouraged, the lies flow freely now. White lies in her eyes. “And I have to say...” Hermione works an edge of reluctant admission into her tone, “I’ve known Katie for many years. Unfortunately, she’s something of a gossip.”

“Everyone would know,” Malfoy adds, like a punctuation. 

She looks sideways at him again, trying to get a handle on the strange appreciation she feels. 

Lying together. What a bonding experience.

Dumbledore somehow manages to look trusting and unconvinced at the same time, but nevertheless he says, “Very well,” echoing Snape’s words with a potent gaze, “assuming she recovers.” He takes a seat in that tall, gilded chair, adjusting his spectacles. “But given the sensitive nature of these circumstances, this does beg the question…” He sits back. “Is there anyone else involved?”

Malfoy scoffs and doesn’t miss a beat. “Longbottom somehow managed to shove his nose into things.”

Hermione flashes him a warning gaze, nostrils flaring.

He only deigns to shrug. 

So she blurts, “Adrian Pucey knows too,” as though it somehow equates to getting even.

McGonagall sighs from behind them. “This is out of hand…”

After studying the two of them for what seems an unbearably long time, Dumbledore twists where he sits to look over his shoulder. “Phineas,” he addresses the sleeping portrait of the old Headmaster, rousing him. “Would you be so kind as to fetch Mr. Pucey from his House?” 

Hermione meets Malfoy’s sideways glance, matching that expression of _‘Now you’ve done it’_ brow for brow. It’s his fault and he knows it.

If she’s honest, she wishes she could pin all of this on him.

“Phyllida,” says Dumbledore, turning the other direction to the painting of the Headmistress. “Would you please do the same for Mr. Longbottom?”

"Albus, what exactly do you plan to do with the boys?" Professor McGonagall hedges. "Obliviation? Surely, you don't intend—”

"I believe the window for such action has passed, in this instance,” he says calmly. "We cannot hope to erase weeks worth of knowledge, now can we?" 

"What, then?" 

Dumbledore's reply is cryptic as ever, eyes half-lidded behind his spectacles. "Sometimes, I find that fortune sends us happy accidents." 

Snape does not care to dwell on it. "And what of Miss Granger?" he asks. 

Dumbledore lifts a brow at him. 

"Should there not be consequences?" 

Hermione lets out a slow breath. She's been waiting for this. 

"Ah." The Headmaster sits back. "I'm afraid Professor Snape is right." There's no malice in his gaze.

Hermione tries not to scrunch her fists in the fabric of her skirt. “I understand, Sir."

"However," Dumbledore adds, holding up a hand, "with Miss Bell's condition as of yet uncertain, it will have to wait."

Professor Snape makes a sound of disapproval behind her, but nothing further is said. Minutes pass, and Dumbledore offers everyone lemon drops while they wait.

Then, eventually, a small knock sounds at the office door. 

"Please come in," says Dumbledore, and they all turn to watch as Neville nervously closes it behind him, a plaid robe hastily thrown over his pajamas.

Hermione tries to apologize with her eyes, but his gaze is fixed on Dumbledore. 

"Mr. Longbottom, you've done nothing wrong," says Professor McGonagall. 

Neville turns to her, red-faced. Swallows and nods.

Dumbledore offers him a gentle smile. "My apologies for waking you at this hour—”

There's no knock the second time — the door just swings open and in strides Adrian Pucey. His dirty blond hair sticks up at all angles and his gait is lazy, hands thrust into the pockets of his joggers.

"Mr. Pucey,” announces Dumbledore. "Thank you for joining us." 

Adrian spares a glance at Neville, seeming to assess the situation, then steps up between her and Malfoy, expression closed off. The old Quidditch tee he's wearing looks to've been charmed, and now it reads _‘_ **_Ex_ ** _-Slytherin Chaser, 06.’_

"What's going on?" he asks flatly. 

Dumbledore's explanation is smooth and somehow reassuring, even with the words _'werewolf'_ and _'dark curse'_ casually tossed into the mix. He thanks them both for their discretion thus far, and then starts talking about those happy accidents again.

"I've been known to utter the phrase — _‘help will always be given at Hogwarts...to those who ask for it.’”_

When Hermione glances sideways, she finds both Adrian and Malfoy rolling their eyes. But Dumbledore is looking at Neville, his smile brighter now.

"In this instance, the cry for help was not so straightforward. And yet you rose to the occasion." Dumbledore leans his chin on folded hands. "Am I correct, Mr. Longbottom, in assuming you have assisted with the Wolfsbane?"

Neville blinks and nods, then seems to jolt himself into speaking. “Y-Yes. Yes, Sir.”

Dumbledore's eyes twinkle. "A tricky plant, that. I think twenty points to Gryffindor are in order."

Neville glances shyly at the floor, flushing deeper red.

"And Mr. Pucey..." says Dumbledore. 

It's like night and day, looking from Neville to him. Neville's head is practically bowed in respect — but Adrian looks so bored he might fall back asleep.

"How has this come to involve you?" 

Adrian rubs one of his eyes, fighting back a yawn. "I've dealt with my fair share of werewolves. I saw these two acting like idiots and gave some much-needed advice."

"Ah," Dumbledore nods, indulging him despite his tone. "And will you continue to give such advice when needed?"

He shrugs so lazily it only moves one shoulder. "If I can, yeah."

"Very well." Dumbledore smiles and gets to his feet.

"What, no twenty points to Slytherin?" 

_"Mr. Pucey,_ " Snape drawls in warning, but Dumbledore only chuckles, his smile wry as he holds Adrian's gaze.

"Twenty- _one_ points to Slytherin." 

* * *

They're all made to sign a magical contract, ensuring no one will reveal what they know — and then, much to everyone's surprise, Dumbledore dismisses them.

"Fucking _perfect,"_ Malfoy hisses the moment they reach the bottom of the griffin's curling staircase. "I start term hoping to be left alone and instead end up with someone's fucked up idea of an emotional support system." 

Adrian breaks away first, striding off ahead of them down the corridor. "Who said anything about support?" 

Hermione reaches for Neville's arm before he can break away too. 

"Neville, I'm — I'm really sorry about all of this."

His eyes dart between her and Malfoy as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Is Katie going to be alright?" 

The first twinge of guilt she's felt about it all night makes itself known in her gut — disgustingly late.

"I — I don't know. I hope so—” 

"Mind shoving off now, Longbottom?" Malfoy interrupts, suddenly looming behind her. "Granger and I have things to discuss."

Neville's gaze locks on him, and all at once that timidness seems to drain away. He stretches up to his full height, brows furrowing. "You might not have support, Malfoy," he says, and then his eyes flit down to Hermione. "But she does."

 _"Ooh,_ very brave.” Malfoy's voice bleeds sarcasm, but when she tums to glare at him, Neville slips away.

"Neville..." she calls after his retreating shadow.

"Goodnight, Hermione." 

When she looks back to Malfoy, he's smirking. And it's never been easier to turn on her heel and walk away from him.

"Oh no, Granger. You don't get to just sweep this under the rug.” 

He catches up quick, matching her stride to walk beside her.

 _"You_ don't get to treat him that way." She keeps her eyes forward. 

"Why do you care so much about Longbottom?"

"I _like_ Neville. He's like family." She shoots a glance at him to point in the direction he’s gone, then at her chest, picking up the pace. _“He_ actually cares what happens to me.'' 

Malfoy scoffs. "Oh, so you prefer him too, then?"

The words almost make her trip, shoes scuffing on the flagstone as she comes to a stop. 

Malfoy takes the opportunity to step in front of her, filling her sight. His expression isn't what she expects. All the sarcasm is gone. 

“Go on, then." 

"What?"

His eyes tighten, "If it's true, then say it again. You don't get to pretend it never happened."

And suddenly she gets a handle on what she's felt simmering inside of him for the last hour.

"Are you... " Her brows furrow. “Are you _jealous?"_

Malfoy's lip curls up.

"Of the _wolf?"_

"Say it again if it's true," he snaps. 

She shakes her head in disbelief. "I..."

_"Go on."_

That jealousy makes way for insecurity, and Malfoy tries to compensate by stepping closer. A threat.

"Speak up.'' Just a whisper now.

"Malfoy..." she's still shaking her head, at a loss. "Anyone would know I said what I said in anger. That — that side of you is a stranger to me."

Malfoy waits, unblinking. Almost bracing for whatever she's about to say.

She tells the truth for once.

"I can't prefer a stranger."

The reaction in him isn't immediate. A slow sort of tension release, like a strained muscle uncoiling.

He doesn't speak, and she takes her chance to escape, stepping around him. 

But maybe it's the uncertainty she feels, still crawling across the bond to her. A sort of displacement. Like he's lost his footing.

Whatever it is, it makes her stop a few feet away and look back at him. "Malfoy."

He only turns halfway, showing her his profile.

It's probably a terrible idea to say it — won't do anything but fan the flames. She says it anyway. 

"You're good with your hands, you know. When you try."

She leaves him with that. 

And the sensation that follows her around the corner through the bond isn't jealousy, it's something else.


	17. Breathe / Bleed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains a potential trigger that I take very seriously. Please scroll to the end to see it, and if you feel at all uncomfortable, please do not feel obligated to read. xx

The night feels endless.

Once again, she’s back in the same bed, staring at the same ceiling, and once again she can’t sleep.

Every time she blinks, she sees Katie’s horror-stricken face behind her eyelids — and now that she’s really started thinking about it, she can’t make herself stop.

She’s terrified of things she can’t classify — and the dark curse her subconscious cooked up in that moment has no name. No label. No definition.

She’s no closer to making sense of it than she is of Malfoy.

Malfoy, whose expression has been ricocheting off the corners of her mind ever since he made it. Ever since she _said_ it.

And _bleeding hell,_ what a stupid thing to say. Ridiculously risky and self-serving. She’d done it to sate her own curiosity about how he might react, and lo and behold — she’s more confused than ever.

Sensing Malfoy in that moment felt like watching an elastic snap. Pulled so far one way — cold, detached, disgusted — only to tear from the tension and suddenly come flying back in the other direction.

He felt consumed and invigorated by her words. Enlightened and awakened. Too many powerful things at once for her to contemplate without going mad.

Which is why she put as much distance between them as possible the moment after she said it, racing back to Gryffindor. 

She feels like she’s playing with chemicals. Mixing them together until she gets a reaction, no matter how dangerous. And while she can lecture herself about it all she wants, she’s not sure she’s going to be able to stop.

The mattress sits at a slightly uneven angle beneath her, offset by the book. Somehow, she’s even more conscious of it than she was before. Almost like she can feel it through the many layers of cotton and wire springs between them — which is ridiculous, of course.

Still. After another five minutes, she can’t resist the temptation to reach for it, drawing her curtains and casting _‘Lumos.’_

The pages are stained according to the index, she realizes. Half the edges have been dipped in black to correspond with the black rituals, and the other half in crimson.

She steels herself and opens to a page directly in the center. The last of the flesh rituals.

Her wand light spills over the darkly-inked words, bordered by sketches of ingredients and a depiction of an altar. 

_The Descent_

The book describes it as the penultimate ritual to achieving a fully fortified bond, and her eyes are immediately drawn to a note scrawled in the margins — handwritten.

_Not to be undone._

Something about the look of the book itself had her assuming everything within its pages was meant to be permanent, and yet someone felt the need to inscribe an additional warning.

  
Her eyes pass over the words cautiously. 

_Recitation:_

_Here, I press my skin to earth_

_Here, I yield_

_I forfeit_

_In your shadow, I kneel to all things_

_Here, in flesh_

_In certainty_

_For this blood is my blood and my offering_

_This blood is my blood and is yours_

  
  
  


The hair stands up on the back of her neck, fingers almost instinctively backing away from the page. 

_Reading for pleasure?_

The wolf’s voice makes her drop her wand, rich tone spilling out across her mind without warning. She sucks in a breath and clutches at her chest, trying to calm her pulse.

The book had her nerves ripe for a shock. 

“You’re…” she whispers, gathering a breath to cast a muffling charm before continuing. “You’re back again, then?”

He tisks at her, sound fluttering between one ear and the other. 

_Already bored of me?_

She’s terrified of how quickly the word _‘never’_ races to the front of her thoughts — pure instinct — but she’s lucky enough to stop herself before she says it out loud.

“No. I’m not bored.”

The wolf waits a long time to respond, leaving her eyes searching fruitlessly in the dark for a face she knows isn’t there with her.

When he does speak, there’s a vulnerability to his tone she’s never heard before.

_But you don’t prefer me after all…_

A pang in her chest. The wolf — somehow jealous as well. It seems surreal.

“I don’t prefer either of you,” she answers, and at the very least it feels like the truth. 

_Speak freely. Your Malfoy can’t hear you._

The words make her sit up straighter, book falling shut in her lap. This isn’t something she considered. 

But if she concentrates, she can clearly sense Malfoy sleeping.

“You aren’t in Malfoy’s head?”

_Not at the moment._

“How is that possible?”

A musing pause.

_One of your books can surely tell you._

“And you won’t?” 

He laughs faintly. _Not the patient sort, are you?_

“No, not at all.” She pulls her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.

_It’s a natural progression,_ says the wolf. _The longer we’re bonded, the stronger it gets. If you remember, there was a time when I could hardly speak to you at all._

She remembers. Those desperate syllables, over and over. Nothing but _take, take, take._

_I am strong enough now to speak when I please, to whom I please,_ he continues. _And I dearly love speaking to you._

A blush spreads across her cheeks, and she wonders whether he’s aware of it. She can’t sense him the way she senses Malfoy, but she can somehow feel him breathing. 

_Are you going to speak freely now?_ he prompts. 

“I — I told you the truth.”

_And yet you call me a stranger._

The words are wounded, turning the confident, debonair edge she’s always seen him wear on its head. 

“But you _are_ a stranger,” she murmurs, suddenly catching herself trying to be gentle.

_After what you let me do to you…_

The blush deepens, staining her cheeks with heat. 

“It wasn’t meant as an insult.”

_Oh?_ His voice deepens. _How was it meant?_

“I’m…” She tries to choose her words carefully. “Well, I’m still trying to sort you out. Learning you as I go. Until I do, you’re a stranger to me.” After a moment, she adds, “But a good sort of stranger...I think.” 

The wolf hums in thought. 

_A good stranger,_ he echoes, like he’s testing out the words on an invisible tongue.

“Yes.”

Another moment’s pause, and then —

_Very well._

His tone is teasing. More like it was before. 

_I can be your stranger._

She feels his weightless presence vanish in the words’ wake, leaving her alone in the darkness of her four-poster. The book still rests against her thigh, heavy in more ways than one — and she decides she’d rather stare at the ceiling than read another one of its pages tonight.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


It doesn’t surprise her that she’s the first of the girls out of bed the following morning. What little sleep she does manage to get is fitful and restless, and by the time the sun creeps up over the mountains, she gives up trying for any more.

Neville, though — he does surprise her. Already awake and sitting in the common room, a pot of miniature dirigible plums resting in his lap. He stops sifting the soil when he notices her, throat bobbing as he swallows.

They’re alone. A rare opportunity to speak. 

“Good morning,” she says, coming to sit in the armchair opposite. She decides to get it over with before he even has the chance to respond. “I’m sorry again about last night — all of it. You shouldn’t have to be involved. I know the whole thing’s a mess, and I know you were only trying to help—”

“Hermione?” Neville sets the plant down on the table so he can see her better, eyebrows lifted. “It’s alright. Okay? Really, it is.”

The relief wants to wash over her immediately, but she realizes she might have to cut through a veneer of chivalry to get at the truth.

“Neville, you can be honest with me.” She leans forward in her chair. “I can go to Dumbledore. Tell him you don’t want anything to do with this. I know how you feel about Malfoy. And Adrian is—”

“Adrian’s not all bad.”

Her mouth falls shut, brows furrowing. 

It’s not the first reaction she expected from him. Not a reaction she expected from him at all, actually. 

Neville scratches awkwardly at his elbow, gaze suddenly fixed on his dirigible plums. “He, erm — I sort of...well, I sort of know him.”

She bites back on her questions, waiting for him to elaborate at his own pace. 

“I spend a lot of the summer at St. Mungo’s,” he says, going a little pink. “My parents are there — I don’t know if you reme—”

“No, right. Of course,” she nods, feeling her chest sink. 

“Anyway, erm…” He scratches at the back of his head now. “He’s there a lot, too. Adrian. To see his mother.” A shy half-shrug. “Sometimes we sit in the waiting room together.”

“Oh.” She nods again, trying to hide her surprise. “Of course. His mother’s a Healer, isn’t she?”

Neville’s eyes find hers, expression suddenly grim. He winces. “Not anymore.”

“Oh.”

“I — well, I mean, I really shouldn’t say. It’s not my story to tell.”

She just keeps nodding — the only appropriate response, it seems — all the while wondering if it’s the truth she already knows, or something more.

“He’s alright, though, Adrian,” Neville says, huffing a laugh. “As Slytherins go, at least.”

She echoes his laugh, seeing an expression in his eyes that has all those strange interactions between the two of them making sense. 

“So...you don’t mind, then? Being involved?” 

He shrugs again, and his smile is brighter now. “Wouldn’t be the first mess we walked into together.” 

The words send a warmth through her veins that remains the rest of the day.

  
  


* * *

  
  


A week passes, and Katie Bell remains in a magically-induced coma — this one not her doing, but Madam Pomfrey’s. 

“To give her mind space to heal,” she says when Hermione works up the courage to visit, terrified of the damage she might see.

But Katie only looks like she’s sleeping, no physical evidence of a dark curse marring her features.

Madam Pomfrey tells her more than once that they’re very, very lucky.

But she doesn’t feel lucky at all.

Especially considering the absolute catastrophe that is the end of the week. 

She’s been doing her best to keep her distance from Malfoy, if only to give both of them a bit of respite. She brushes off strange sensations when they come and focuses her attention on her studies, the occasional wayward glance notwithstanding. 

But it’s possible in putting so much effort into avoiding him, she’s turned a blind eye to almost everyone else — which is exactly how McLaggen manages to catch her off guard.

Halfway to the Great Hall for dinner on Friday evening, she turns a corner and walks directly into an immobilizing jinx. Her limbs lock and her eyes freeze wide, and before she can comprehend it, a sweaty pair of hands drags her into a broom cupboard.

“Hello, Granger,” Cormac’s lazy voice sounds just beside her ear before he steps into her field of vision, and her stomach promptly starts to tie itself in knots.

One hand training his wand on her, he uses the other to brush the hair out of her face. She’s only had someone do that one other time in her life. And this feels entirely different.

Entirely unclean.

“Funny story,” says Cormac, and he smirks, eyes a little wild. “I was in Herbology today when a memory I seemed to be missing hit me out of nowhere.”

Her stomach feels like it launches into her throat.

“Memory charms are tricky that way.” He starts to trace the length of her arm with his wand. “If you don’t perform them correctly, sometimes they wear off.” 

She can’t swallow the saliva pooling on her tongue. Can’t blink to hide him from her sight. She feels exactly how she felt with Greyback — a way she swore she’d never feel again.

“Not a very nice thing you did to me, is it?” And now it’s his hand traveling lower, dropping from her forehead to her collarbone and starting to trace sickly circles into her skin. “Especially after I treated you so well…”

_Where are you?_

The wolf’s voice suddenly drowns Cormac out, and it’s the most welcome sound in the world in this moment. 

_Where are you? What’s happening?_

Her lips can’t part to speak, tears welling up in her eyes — she’s not sure if it’s from the sting or from the look on Cormac’s face. 

She can hardly focus her thoughts, racing wild and panicked, and it takes every ounce of concentration just to manage one word.

_Help._

Barely a moment passes and Malfoy’s running. She can feel it. 

But Cormac’s already got his hand on her thigh, clammy fingers feeling at the hem of her skirt. “I think it’s only fair I get a repeat performance,” he’s saying, voice starting to tremble with anticipation. “Maybe even a little extra. What do you think?”

He’s so excited. 

She wants to be sick. 

_Help me._

She wants to help herself. Wants to gouge his eyes out. Wants to cut out his tongue with a dull knife and then ask him what he thinks. 

But she can’t even wipe away the drool trickling down her chin. 

Cormac steps back, hand dropping from her thigh to work at unzipping his trousers, and it’s like God sees her out the corner of his eye.

He miscalculates his footing and trips over a broom. 

Spell compromised, as he falls, so does the enchantment — and the moment the life explodes back into her limbs, she’s reaching for her wand. 

Cormac sees it, scrambling to disentangle himself from the pile of brooms, face suddenly white with panic. 

And if she weren’t shaking so badly, she’d have hexed him in a millisecond. 

As it is, she’s barely able to train her wand on him before he’s lurching to his feet and bursting out the door, her stinging jinx striking the flagstone next to one of his ankles before he vanishes from sight. 

Vaguely, she hears his rapid footfalls as he escapes down the corridor, but they’re soon drowned out by her own gasps for air.

She can’t catch her breath, lungs closed up — practically shriveled. Her hand fists in her shirt over her chest, pressing hard and trying to force herself to take in oxygen. The little room around her spins, and she slides down to the floor, wand clattering against stone. 

The air feels hot and suffocating, sweat beading on her forehead, vision swimming. For a moment, she wonders if she might actually pass out. 

But just when everything starts to tint black, the door to the broom cupboard gets thrown open — and Malfoy’s there.

It’s like a splash of water to the face.  
  
Suddenly her lungs inflate and her vision clears, and at the very least she’s able to turn her head and glance up at him. 

He’s panting — breathless, his tie still slung over his shoulder from what must’ve been a breakneck pace. 

“What happened?”

A thick silence follows, only their staggered breathing to fill it. And as she stares up at him, all the pain and all the fear feels like it ferments in her stomach. 

She _will not_ cry. 

The tears already streaming down her face are from having them forced open, she’s sure of it. And she is not going to cry in front of him.

“What happened?” Malfoy asks again, because she still hasn’t answered. Only this time, his voice is softer — and with an attentiveness she didn’t know he was capable of, he sinks into a crouch at her side. Evens out their eye level. 

She opens her mouth to speak but the words get trapped in her throat. 

She knows what Malfoy will say. 

He’ll say they need to report him. He’ll say it was a close call and maybe even that he’s sorry he didn’t get to her sooner. 

But in this moment she’s realizing she needs more than that. 

The sickness in her gut is rapidly morphing into something else. Something poisonous and white-hot. Something that boils and writhes. 

She doesn’t want to _report_ him.

She wants…

She wants—

Operating on pure instinct, she abruptly rocks forward onto her knees and leans towards him. Malfoy’s expression of concern melts into confusion as, all at once, she takes his face in her hands. 

“Granger…” he says, eyes a little wide beneath furrowed brows. He sinks down onto one knee — whether to fix his balance or to accommodate her, she isn’t certain. “What are you—”

“I need your help,” she says, searching his eyes. Knowing she’s already made up her mind. “And you’re not going to like it.”

_“What—”_

“Stranger?” she breathes, knowing no other name to call him by. “Where are you?” 

Malfoy has only a moment to stare at her, realization flooding into his gaze far too late. And then his pupils bleed out their black onto his irises, and she’s looking at the wolf.

Immediately, his hands reach up to cover hers, taking them away from his face to clasp in front of him. His grip is warm. Safe.

“What happened to you?”

Tears prick at her eyes, and she resolutely forces them back, swallowing before she speaks. “Cormac McLaggen.” Her voice is as steady as she can manage. “He jinxed me, and then he tried to—”

The wolf lets out a sharp breath, hands suddenly tightening around hers. She feels the fury explode inside of him like a controlled demolition. No warning. No build-up. Just there. Instantly.

His voice is a hiss. _“Did_ he?”

“No.” She shakes her head sharply. “No. He didn’t get the chance. But I — I need your help.”

The rage falters in his gaze, somehow making way for tenderness. “Anything,” he says. One of his hands slips free to brush the curls out of her face, and the reminder of it — the _comparison_ of it — solidifies the urge in her gut beyond anything else.

“I don’t want to report him,” she says, and now her voice is firm. 

A brush of his thumb across her lips. “What do you want?”

She releases a steady breath, sure of it. Needing it.

“I want him to bleed.”

A flicker in those dark eyes grows steadily into a wildfire as he processes her words. For a long moment, he searches her gaze, as though he’s waiting for her to take it back.

But when she holds firm, unblinking — unwavering — the hard set of his lips lifts into a grin both faint and somehow vicious. She doesn’t really get the chance to analyze it.

A few seconds more, and he leans forward to kiss her. 

A different sort of kiss. Soft. Unmoving. A promise.

He speaks against her lips. 

“Take me to him.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


They wait at the entrance to the Great Hall as students slowly trickle out, leaving dinner, and all the while the anticipation simmers right beneath her skin. She flexes her fingers, unable to keep still.

The wolf is much the same, only for an entirely different reason.

When she first notices the tension in his jaw, she thinks it’s more of that rage she’d seen before. It’s only when she sees his fingernails digging into his palms that she realizes he’s fighting against something.

“Malfoy?”

The wolf nods, voice tense but reassuring. “I can hold him off as long as I need to—”

_“There,”_ she cuts in, seeing Cormac’s overlarge frame step into the Entrance Hall. The wolf doesn’t recognize him as Malfoy would, but once she’s certain he’s fixed those blackened depths on the right person, she slips back into the shadows — out of sight.

“Hey, McLaggen!” the wolf calls out, and she’s impressed by the casual edge he’s worked into his tone. 

Cormac’s head jerks to the side, brows furrowing at the sight of Malfoy. She can tell that he’s nervous. Waiting for consequences.

He knows what he’s done.

But he’d never expect consequences from Malfoy.

“Can I have a word?” the wolf asks, voice as calm and even as the still water of the Black Lake. He jolts his head in the direction of the Courtyard, still accessible to students for the next hour or so. 

But it’s doubtful anyone would venture out into the cold.

“...Sure?” Cormac hedges, meandering away from the crowd to follow him. He looks suspicious, but not suspicious enough. 

Hermione waits until they’ve both disappeared around the corner before she follows.

She wants to see it. 

She promised herself she’d never feel helpless like that again, and he broke that promise for her. She wants him in agony.

Stepping out into the icy night air, she turns in the direction of the torchlight, finding the wolf standing a foot or so from Cormac, hands in his trouser pockets. 

He’s waiting for her.

“Well?” Cormac demands, tone back to its usual arrogance. The way they’re situated, he can’t see her behind him.

But the wolf meets her eyes, gaze soft and indulgent for just a moment. 

Then he points casually to the stone wall behind Cormac’s shoulder and says, “Look.”

Cormac looks, fool that he is, and in that split second it takes him to turn towards the wall, the wolf gnarls a brutal fist into his hair and slams his face into the stone.

The crunch of his nose as it breaks isn’t sickening to her ears — no, it’s almost soothing. His high-pitched yelp of pain works wonders on the knots in her stomach, untying them one by one.

And as his bright scarlet blood starts to spill down the length of the wall, she takes a step closer. 

The wolf has his face pressed up against it so hard, it appears he can’t breathe. The blood gushing from his nose starts to spill into his open mouth, and his body jerks as he starts to choke on it, palms slapping desperately against the stone on either side.

“Look at her,” the wolf demands, somehow managing to angle Cormac’s head enough to the side that one of his watering eyes fixes on her. 

Fear and panic washes over the look of pain in an instant. 

“Do you see her?” 

It looks like his eyes can barely focus. He’s starting to spasm, drowning in his own blood, and it sprays everywhere as he desperately tries to spit it out. 

She stares at him and feels nothing but satisfaction.

“She is _everything,”_ the wolf growls, leaning forward — right up to his ear, ensuring Cormac doesn’t miss a word over his own squealing. “You owe your life to her. If she’d asked me to, I would’ve ripped the lungs out of your chest and lain them at her feet.”

A pulse of something intense and raw rides up her spine. Something indescribable. 

Cormac splutters and gags, starting to seize up without the air to breathe.

So the wolf yanks him back, spinning him around only to force the palm of his hand against that freshly broken nose and shove the back of his skull against the wall. “Now look at me.”

Cormac screams, clawing at his arm to no avail, thick blood leaking out through the gaps between the wolf’s fingers.

“Consider me the fucking executioner.” A deadly hiss. “And if you breathe a word of this to anyone — if you come _anywhere near_ her again — I will burn you alive.” 

He lets go all at once, and Cormac somehow manages to stay upright for a few seconds.

“Do you understand?”

He falls straight forward with the weight of an anvil, sprawling out unconscious on the flagstone. The wet patch on his jeans is visible even from the back.

The wolf turns to look at her, blood all over his right hand — splattered across his shirtfront. He smiles sweetly as he rolls up the soaked sleeve. “I think he understands.”

And for the first time since she was dragged into that broom cupboard, she gathers a full, satisfying breath. 

Only, it’s just then that the wolf’s body gives a jerk — and she knows what’s coming. 

The repercussions she expected but didn’t plan for.

Black leeches away to grey, and all at once that casual posture turns feral. 

Malfoy comes at her fast. Her feet can’t keep up, scuffing on the stone as he abruptly crowds her into the adjacent wall. That blood-soaked hand takes her by the face, pinning her there and stealing the breath she regained right back.

“How could you do that to me?” he demands, gaze livid. “How _dare_ you?”

She opens her mouth, but evidently he doesn’t intend to let her speak.

“I felt what was in your head.” A jerk of that hand, forcing her eyes to focus on him. “You disregarded me. Discounted me. As if you know fucking _anything_ about me.”

“I—”

_“Why didn’t you let me do it?”_

Her mouth hangs slightly ajar, words on her tongue evaporating.

“I.... _what?”_ is all she can manage after far too many seconds of silence.

“I would’ve gladly knocked his fucking teeth out,” Malfoy seethes, grip tightening. “I would’ve done it in front of the _whole fucking school._ Why did you take that away from me?”

Blindsided, she can only blink at him. “I…”

_“Fucking_ _hell,”_ he rips his hand away, forgetting the blood and wiping that palm down his face. Smearing it everywhere. “You trust him more than me.”

She tries to shake her head. Tries to form a response.

He huffs. A disappointment. A dismissal. 

“You can’t trust him more than me.” 

He brushes past her shoulder and disappears into the Castle — leaves her there with the unconscious, soiled mess that used to be Cormac McLaggen.

* * *

art by @_mignonchignon on Instagram

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: attempted sexual assault, graphic violence


	18. Knives / Chemicals

_ Dear Tonks, _

_ Was there ever a point when you felt you weren't really yourself anymore? That the things you were doing and the things you were thinking — especially the things you were thinking — didn't add up? _

_ I'm starting to feel like I don't know up from down. I've been reading, like you asked — and thank you for the new book you sent. It's just that it feels like every door I open leads to a million more. Every answer only introduces more questions. _

_ I don't know what I want anymore, and to be honest I— _

She crumples the letter into a fist and never sends it. She doesn't send anything.

Friday night feels like a fever dream. Left in the courtyard alone, she'd been forced to levitate Cormac McLaggen's bleeding body into a collection of tall bushes — hiding him, lest a Prefect stumble upon him before he could regain consciousness.

There was no consideration of another memory charm.

And yet it would genuinely surprise her if McLaggen said anything. She's never seen anyone look at someone the way the wolf looked at him.

But the way Malfoy looked at _her…_

She spends all of Saturday on her own, pretending she's reading when really she's thinking about what he said.

_ Why didn't you let me do it? _

Why would he _want_ to do it?

What could he possibly stand to gain by offering something like that — and, by extension, exposing their situation to the entire school?

Logic wants her to believe he said it in the heat of the moment. A haphazard excuse for his anger at being forced to bisect.

The other possibility is far too daunting to consider, and she tries very hard not to.

Still — those words lingering in her brain start to eat at her, and more and more she's realizing she may have crossed a very dangerous line.

It can't stay like this.

* * *

On a Sunday so close to the full moon, it isn't hard to guess where he'll be. Shortly after breakfast, she makes excuses about studying and detaches herself from Harry and Ron.

Her eyes unintentionally search for Cormac amongst the groups of students she passes, but he's yet to show that extensively damaged face. And it's highly unlikely he'd be hanging around the Dungeons.

The Potions Classroom is free for student use on weekends — _‘a fantastic opportunity to hone one’s skills,’_ Slughorn likes to say. Thus, it’s predictably empty this morning. She takes a seat at one of the many tables and settles in to wait, that pale blue book of paramours serving as her companion.

She’s not afraid of it as she once was. Not when she has something to compare it to — and that book of rituals makes it feel like a bedtime story.

This is not to say that everything within its pages feels approachable. Hardly. She’s just reached a section devoted to what to expect on the night of the full moon.

_ In one instance above all others, you as a paramour must learn to battle your own instincts. _

_ Put away all notions of care and concern when the full moon rises and make yourself scarce. This will test you. You may feel that you are leaving your other half to fend for themselves. May believe that you know them better than anyone in the world — better than you know yourself. But come transformation, they will **not** know you. _

_ A paramour in the eyes of a fully transformed werewolf is little more than prey. Do not tempt fate. _

The creak of the door startles her, spine straightening at the sight of Malfoy standing just beyond the threshold.

He looks surprised to see her, lingering for a moment as the door falls shut behind him. That pre-transformation weariness is draped over him like a shroud, posture hunched and face wan. She tries to pretend it’s not suspicion she sees in his gaze.

“Granger.”

“Malfoy.”

Slowly, he makes his way towards one of the cauldrons and sets his bag on the table, never quite turning his back.

“I…figured I’d find you here,” she says, shutting the book in her lap.

“Well, you have.” His eyes are fixed on the parcel he takes from the bag, bound with twine. Carefully, he unwraps layers of brown parchment, revealing sprigs of aconite he’s brought from the Room of Requirement. She can understand being cautious with them.

But arranging the other ingredients so obsessively on the table — the bottles and vials and tools? There’s no need for such acute focus.

He’s avoiding her eyes.

“Malfoy,” she says, quieter now.

Aggressively, he begins to sharpen that curved knife, the scrape of it jarring.

So she makes herself say what she came here to say.

“Malfoy, I’m sorry.”

A strange feeling in his gut, bleeding through the bond. Like he’s prepared for this not to mean anything. He keeps sharpening, eyes down, and she’s forced to slide off the stool and move closer to him, book disappearing into her bag.

“Really, I am,” she says, trying to temper her voice as she stops at his table, the cauldron he’s started to heat bubbling between them.

“For what?” He still doesn’t look at her, and his tone is too blank to analyze. But he knows exactly what, and she gets the feeling he just wants to hear her say it. Wants her to fully comprehend how out of line she was.

Instead, she takes a seat, awkwardly folding her hands on the table and tugging on the sleeve of her jumper. “I was afraid.”

A long silence.

“I was afraid and I was panicking, and I thought if the — if...” She struggles to word it. “I thought if it wasn’t _you_ who did it, there wouldn’t be consequences if you were — if we were caught.”

Malfoy hums in the back of his throat. Unfriendly. Cold. “That’s a pretty lie.”

She’d defend herself if she didn’t feel the bitter disappointment flooding through him like a tidal wave.

“I was selfish,” she amends after almost half a minute. “I wanted McLaggen to hurt and I wanted it done as quickly as possible. I thought he — I thought that _side_ of you would be more willing.”

Finally, as he begins adding the herbs to the cauldron, Malfoy glances up at her. His eyes are tired. Almost sad.

Or perhaps that’s just the dim lighting of the Potions classroom.

“Because you trust him more than me.”

She’s a little surprised how quick she is to shake her head. “I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

A flick of his wand, and the potion starts to bubble in earnest, super-heated. He yanks the lid from the flask of sheep’s blood and tips it in unceremoniously.

“Malfoy, this isn’t — it wasn’t about trust. It was a shortcut. It was about—“

“I’m starting to black out. Did you know that?”

She falls silent, fidgeting hands going still.

“Yeah.” There’s a humorless laugh in his tone. His eyes flit to her, then back to the cauldron. “Now when the wolf drags me aside, I see nothing. Feel nothing. It’s like falling into a fucking abyss.” Another glance — this one sharper. Lasting. “Then again, I didn’t really fall, did I? I was pushed.”

The fury she feels simmering in his chest mixes oddly with the sinking guilt in her own. “I…I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t ask.”

This time, when he rips his gaze away, it’s like he’s forgotten what he’s doing. As though, in his anger, he’s lost his place. His brow furrows as he studies the ingredients laid out in front of him, hands gathering into tight fists where they rest on the table.

She can’t think of anything to say. Only watches him, feeling his confusion. He’s almost disoriented somehow.

Then, with a muffled grunt, he seems to come to his senses, pushing off the table and stalking over to one of the supply cabinets. He returns with a vial of something dark, eyes low as he adds it in and stirs.

And then another moment of pause. He steps back, studying the cauldron again. Blinks and steps forward, reaching for the knife. When he slips on those gloves and begins to slice the aconite, it’s with that practiced precision she remembers.

“I won’t do it again,” she murmurs when the silence grows too thick. Feels it needs to be said.

“Heaven help you if you try.”

It’s hard to tell empty threats from truth with him. His tone is mild, focus still on his knife. And yet she thinks he’s beyond caring that what hurts her hurts him too. He’s probably perfectly serious.

And maybe that’s why she asks.

“Did you mean it?”

He starts to dip the stems into the brew, not answering. Perhaps not sure what she’s asking.

“When you said you would’ve done it for me?”

A noticeable hesitation as he reaches for the sliced petals. All at once she can feel the uncertainty and panic swell up inside of him, like he’s been caught in a trap. She sees his throat bob as he swallows — sees him forget, once again, where he is in the brewing process.

She’s knocked him off kilter.

“If you did, I think that’s…” The word isn’t hard to find. “That’s lovely.”

Malfoy’s chin jolts up, gaze locking on hers. He searches her eyes for the slightest trace of a lie. She can almost feel him searching the bond for it.

And when he finds none, he tips his head back. More relaxed, lids lowering. Not happy, by any means. Not satisfied. Just — soothed.

He finishes off with the petals, letting the silence eclipse them, and the heady scent of the Wolfsbane starts to flood the classroom. It smells a little different than she remembers from the first time. Less sharp. Slightly less noxious.

She leans her chin on her hand, watching the steam billow up from the cauldron as Malfoy leaves it to settle and starts to clean off the knife. After a moment, she finds herself scooting her stool a little closer so she can lean forward and see inside. 

It doesn’t look any different than it did before. The color’s the same. But the smell — it’s…

She inhales deeply and all at once her mouth starts to water.

“Don’t fall in, Granger,” Malfoy huffs, sarcasm momentarily tearing away her focus. He’s still clearing away ingredients. But as he removes his gloves and sets them to burn, the potion gives a hiss, starting to bubble violently.

She leans back.

It smells divine.

Relieved to have a quick brew, Malfoy’s tense shoulders slump as he reaches for his flask. Her eyes fix on the silvery liquid as he guides it into the bottle with his wand, that scent curling towards her the way a finger beckons.

Of course she knows she doesn’t suffer from his condition. She knows what Wolfsbane is intended for.

And yet, considering its purpose — preventative — she finds it hard to imagine any dangerous outcomes. Not for what she’s about to do.

It’s inevitable.

The moment he turns away, she reaches for the ladle sitting off to the side. Dips it in and takes a sip straight from the cauldron.

Everything happens so fast.

_ “Granger—” _

Malfoy’s sharp shout is cut off by the sound of the ladle clattering to the floor. He’s hexed it straight out of her hand — before she’s even swallowed a full spoonful. And yet all she can think as he appears in front of her, taking her wrists and yanking her away from the cauldron, is how wonderful it tastes. Like nectar and citrus. Like pine. Like the best sip of gin she’s ever had.

Fitting, it tastes like alcohol. The last sober thought she has is the sound of the wolf, laughing inside her head.

“Granger, what the fuck?” Malfoy demands, giving her a shake. “What were you — what the _fuck?”_ He seems torn between staring wide-eyed at her and back at the cauldron, and when he catches a good whiff of it he seems to do a double take.

Letting go of only one of her wrists, he takes a step towards the Wolfsbane and inhales deeply.

_“Fuck,”_ he breathes, but he’s sort of out of focus now. She’s not sure if he’s the one who vanishes the cauldron or if that’s just her imagination. But he just keeps hissing out that word, over and over again. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck.”_

And suddenly he’s got her by both wrists once more, guiding her towards the classroom door. That’s very silly of him. She doesn’t want to leave.

“Where are you taking me?”

Malfoy tows her out into the Dungeons corridor. “I need to find Adrian.”

“But it smells _wonderful.”_

“Fuck,” he mutters again, slamming the Potions door behind them and dragging her in close as he starts to lead her down the hallway. He seems to think she’s going to try to escape from him. How _stupid_. He smells even better than the classroom did.

She leans a little closer to the shoulder of the arm towing her along, breathing him in. “You smell wonderful too. Do you know — Malfoy, are you listening to me?”

He’s got his eyes fixed straight ahead, jaw set tight and brows meeting in the middle.

“Don’t talk. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Yes I do.” She stumbles a little, trying to keep up with his strenuous pace. “Do you know how certain people like the smell of chemicals? Like ammonia and gasoline? I _love_ the smell of chemicals.” She wraps her free hand around his arm, pulling herself closer as they walk. Well, _she’s_ walking. He’s sort of running, and she’s not sure why. “You smell like chemicals.”

Under his breath, he mutters, “You can’t be fucking serious,” and a moment later they lurch to a halt and he lets go of her hand, prying himself free of her grip.

“Where are you—”

He’s gone.

Again, it’s possible her eyes are playing tricks on her, but she’s fairly certain he’s completely vanished.

She blinks to clear her vision, slowly turning in a circle — searching the otherwise vacant corridor. The glimmer of the torches is somewhat distracting, momentarily mesmerizing her. But the thought of Malfoy quickly restores her focus.

He smells so lovely. Where is he? She needs—

“Just look! Look at her. _Look.”_

His voice is lovely too — a deep, rich vibration in her ears — and she turns eagerly towards the sound, only to find him not alone. Adrian is with him, looking like he’s just been dragged out of bed, despite how late it is in the day.  


She doesn’t need Adrian.

“How much of it did she take?”

His voice is almost jarring by comparison, and Hermione recoils from it, eyes narrowing in disgust. She’s quick to take a step towards Malfoy, the proximity soothing. Reassuring.

“I don’t know,” he says, tone like a lullaby. “Just a sip, I think. But look at her, she’s gone completely mad. Saying I smell like chemicals and tripping all over—”

“You smell like _heaven,”_ she corrects him, reaching out for his hand. Why hasn’t he pulled her closer to him yet?

“See?” Malfoy demands, batting her hand away. It feels like being burned.

She gasps and flinches, shrinking against the wall.

“Careful,” Adrian says, tone sharp. He waves a warning hand. “Don’t — you don’t want to do that. Don’t reject her.”

_ “What?” _

“You asked for my help — I’m giving it to you. This can get really dangerous if you’re not careful. Give her back your hand.”

Why would he need to be forced to take her hand? She feels tears well up in her eyes at the thought, pulling away from him when he reaches out. Sinking further down against the wall until she’s sitting on the floor.

A strange look passes over Malfoy’s face. “I can…” he murmurs. “She feels like she’s hurt. Why does she feel like she’s hurt?”

Adrian says it again. “You need to be careful.” His eyes are fixed on her — studying her every move. But he’s not the one she wants to be studied by. “Paramours take Wolfsbane as a part of certain rituals. It’s not something you play around with. This is going to get worse.”

“Worse how?” asks Malfoy, and her gaze jerks to his, searching desperately for kindness in those beautiful grey eyes.

Adrian takes a step towards him, leaning to the side to murmur something in his ear.

She glares up at him from the floor.

He’s in her way.

Whatever he’s saying to Malfoy, it makes his eyes widen. He looks like he’s horrified, and she can’t imagine what could make him so afraid of her. She just wants to be closer to him.

The last thing Adrian says before he leans away is audible — just barely. “Be gentle.”

And Malfoy, as he steps towards her, seems timid. Cautious. As though she might attack — but he should know she’d never attack. _Never_. Never.

Slowly, he sinks into a crouch at her side, incredulous gaze softening just a fraction as he reaches out. She reaches out too, thinking he means to take her hand, but instead she finds his palm sliding over her cheek. It’s lovely. _Marvelous_. Feels like being caressed by sunlight.

Her eyes fall shut at the sensation, and that intoxicating scent of him draws closer as he leans in to whisper to her. “You’re going to come with me, alright?”

“Mm.” She nods against his palm, pressing into it.

“Go quickly,” Adrian urges from behind, voice cutting through the moment like a razor blade. She fixes a vicious glare on him as Malfoy helps her to her feet.

“Where?” Malfoy asks, and it’s his hand entwining with hers that melts the anger from her face.

“Anywhere but here.” Adrian takes out his wand and casts the charm so quickly she doesn’t quite catch it.

“A Glamour?”

“You don’t want anyone to see her like this. Go. Now. The effects will last over an hour, and like I said — they’re getting worse.”

She’s grateful when Adrian’s presence fades away, and suddenly all she knows is Malfoy, leading her along. She loses track of corridors and staircases. There’s only him. His scent. His steady, gentle grip. The curves and lines that make up the muscles of his arm. The angle of his jaw she can see from where she trails along behind him.

She doesn’t know where he’s taking her until they’re already inside the Room of Requirement, but once she pulls it into focus she can’t think of a better place in the world. No one to find them. No one to stop them.

The Wolfsbane is still there, violet flowers glinting in the artificial moonlight from above. The room is still awash with heat from the humidity. It’s almost exactly the same as always. Only, now there’s a long, midnight blue sofa in the corner that wasn’t there before.

Malfoy guides her over to it, seeming very careful about where his hands touch her skin as he maneuvers her to sit.

“Try…” he says, sounding almost nervous. “Try and relax.”

“I am relaxed.”

She is. She’s never felt better than she does with him so close. She tries to reach up towards his face — maybe glide her fingers across his lips, just to show him — but suddenly he moves away. Steps back and quickly takes a seat at the far end of the sofa on the other side.

Leaves a gap of at least a meter between them.

“I’ll — I’ll be right here.” He crosses his arms, turning to lean back against the armrest so he’s facing her, legs stretching out across that space in the middle. “Just try to relax. We’ll get through this.”

“Get _through_ this?” She’s astounded. “Malfoy, don’t you see how lucky we are?”

His brows draw in tight. She can see the thin sheen of sweat spreading across his forehead from the heat — wonders how it tastes. “Lucky?” he echoes, like the word is foreign.

How can he not understand?

She shakes her head at him in disbelief, twisting onto her palms so she can crawl across that ridiculous space between them.

Malfoy goes tense immediately, jerking out both hands like he’s warding her off. “Granger, _don’t._ Don’t — stay on that side.”

How can he not _see?_

“Malfoy…” She pauses in the middle near his feet, on her hands and knees.

“Listen to me. Listen.” He’s still got his palms out flat. “Something got added to the Wolfsbane. Something to entice you. It made you want to take it. It’s not your fault.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know how it happened. Granger — look, just listen to me. Listen to me. You’re not in control right now. This isn’t what you actually want.”

“You’re _wrong.”_

“Granger—”

She can’t stand any more of these lies. He can’t see, so he needs to be shown.

Swiftly, she closes the rest of that distance, crawling into his lap before he can begin to push her away. And even when his hands take to her arms, trying to hold her back, and his mouth opens, spewing meaningless warnings, the potent scent of him cascades over her like a wave breaking against rock — too much to withstand.

“Don’t you see?” she whispers, unable to stop herself from leaning forward — burying her face in the crook of his neck. The flesh of his throat against her lips feels as right as breathing. “We’re so lucky.”

The vibration of her words makes him groan, and that in turn makes her fall into him, resting all of her weight against his chest, thighs tightening where they bracket his. She opens her mouth, sucking that supple flesh between her teeth, having tasted nothing better. Nothing in existence.

“Granger…” he says, breath catching halfway through. “Don’t. You don’t want this.”

His words are just colors and pretty lights inside her head. She rocks her hips against his and tells the truth.

“I feel _empty.”_

He groans again. “Stop.”

“Help me.”

_“Please_ stop,” said even as his arms wind around her.

“Why won’t you help me?”

Malfoy practically whimpers — she’s never heard him make a sound like that. Wants to hear it again.

_ I’ll take care of her. _

The wolf’s voice is thick as velvet inside their heads as she takes his earlobe between her teeth. Malfoy goes rigid.

“Don’t you fucking _dare,”_ he hisses. 

She rocks her hips again, seeking relief. Trying to quench thirst that’s only growing.

_ Let me help her. I know what she wants. _

“She doesn’t want it. You know she doesn’t want it.”

“I want it,” she insists, nodding against him — a breathless plea into his ear.

His grip on her tightens, one hand fisting in the curls that fall down her back, and he whispers back in a voice fierce, “You _don’t._ Trust me, you don’t. You would never want this with me.”

_ She wants it. _

“Get out of my head.”

_ What sort of monster would deny his paramour? _

“Please…” She writhes against him, trying to twist her head so she can capture his mouth. Wants and needs to taste him.

But Malfoy holds her too tightly, keeping her pressed to his shoulder like an embrace. He twitches and fights back soft moans with every movement of her lips against his throat, hard between her thighs and yet doing nothing to help himself.

His words are tense. Furious. Spoken through gritted teeth.

“I’m not a monster.”

He holds her against him all through that hour — relentless. Steadfast. Sweat dripping down his temples and neck. Salty on her tongue as she licks it away. He holds her until the euphoria dies its slow death, all the while fighting that voice in his head as it rings out every minute.

_ Let me in. _

_ Let me in. _

He never does.

And only when the last of it wears away and that heady fog leeches out of her mind — only when reality comes crashing down with the weight of an anvil does she feel his exhaustion.


	19. Instinct / Honesty

Waking up feels like peeling away from something sticky — like dragging herself out of wet cement. Her eyelashes are tangled together, vision thick with sleep, body and clothes damp with cold sweat.

She stretches and immediately feels velvet against her skin. The sofa.

She’s still in the Room of Requirement.

Her eyes have to adjust to the dark as she pushes up off a feather pillow. She doesn’t remember it being there before.

No, what was there before was—

“Malfoy?” she calls out. Her voice is rough.

Nothing replies from the darkness.

Fully upright, Hermione hunts for her wand in the wrinkled pocket of her skirt.

Her memory’s not nearly as impaired as she might’ve expected. Might’ve even preferred. She remembers ridiculous words like _‘heaven’_ and _‘lucky’_ and — perhaps worst of all — _‘empty.’_

And what’s more, she remembers _wanting_ to say those words, which makes pretending it never happened quite literally impossible.

It must've been an enticing agent. She's heard of additives used to make potions irresistible, though most have been designed with medicinal purposes in mind. This was hardly medicinal.

And hardly an accident.

It was the wolf. She's certain of it.

But her fury at the realization is subsumed by confusion, and piecing together the present moment becomes somehow more important.

Malfoy — where is Malfoy?

She casts a charm for the time, shocked to find the whole of Sunday gone. Her muscles tense.

It’s two in the morning.

Which means there’s only one place Malfoy can be.

Slowly, the more she concentrates, faint sensations of him reach her across the bond. Cold and loneliness and pain. So much pain.

It’s mild in the physical sense. They’re too far apart. But mentally, he feels like he’s tearing at the seams. Confused. Ravenous.

Tears well up in her eyes without warning, and she pictures the crooked walls of the Shrieking Shack around him — those cold chains biting into his wrists.

It’s exactly like the book said. Every instinct tells her to go to him.

She gathers an unsteady breath, dropping her head into her hands. It’s far from irresistible, but it _is_ strong. Magnetizing. She finds herself wondering if he’s hurt himself. If he’s lost. If maybe she could—

She stops herself, because the next word in her mind is _‘comfort,’_ and it’s completely absurd in this context. 

There is nothing she can do for Malfoy. No, not now.

Not now, but — in the aftermath? 

She stands from the sofa, joints stiff and legs unsteady. Her mouth tastes sour and her head is throbbing, but she can’t go back to Gryffindor at this hour. Another run-in with a Prefect is the last thing she needs.

However, as luck would have it, this is the Room of Requirement. 

She shuts her eyes, inhaling deeply and imagining a place more suited to her needs. There’s a noticeable shift in the atmosphere around her, the humidity of the greenhouse instantly dissipating. Faint notes of jasmine manifest from all sides, and when she opens her eyes the room is much changed.

Candles now line the long, stone walls, joining in with the illusion of the night sky above to illuminate her surroundings. A shower cubicle made of marble and glass stands in the far corner, folded towels and a change of clothes arranged on a table beside it. 

But she wasn’t only thinking of herself. 

In the room’s center, a large, frameless bed has been conjured — and not far from it, an apothecary table, lined with all the ingredients needed for a healing salve. She has a sense he’s injured. Knows without a doubt he’s exhausted. 

And if she can get him to come back here when he’s — when it’s over… 

If she can call him to her, somehow, then maybe he’ll let her help.

She feels responsible, after all. If he’s been unable to prepare the way he usually does for a transformation, she’s sure it’s her fault. 

Right now, though, nothing seems more appealing than a shower.

She spends at least an hour in it, thinking and overthinking, and the water never goes cold. Her fingers prune and her mind wanders, faint sensations of Malfoy making her gut twist every now and then. 

And when she’s clean and dry, she forces herself to sleep a little more. She’ll be no help to him if she can hardly keep her eyes open, and the remnants of the Wolfsbane lingering in her veins have her practically sleepwalking.

By four, she’s awake again, and she sets to work on the healing salves. 

Malfoy’s transformation must be nearly over by now. She wonders if it's not too early to try reaching out to him. 

_Come to me,_ she urges, for whatever it might be worth. _When it’s over, come to me. I’ll help you. Come to me._

She knows they can’t speak across minds. Not in the way the wolf can. But she feels certain, with enough focus — enough emphasis — he’ll feel that sense of urgency. He’ll feel it and come to find her.

It’s nearly six in the morning before he does.

Dawn has already broken, she’s sure, even if the false night of the room prevents her from seeing it. 

She’s busy mixing together herbs when the doors finally open, candles flickering from the sudden shift in the air. 

She turns to face the threshold and nearly drops the bowl. 

Malfoy is barely upright. 

He clings to one of the iron door handles as it falls shut behind him, crumpled against it for support. His hair is matted and filthy, pieces of leaves tangled in. His white shirt is torn — soaked through. 

And there’s blood smeared all over him. He must’ve fully transformed.

“Malfoy...”

She does drop the bowl. Doesn’t think, just follows her feet, rushing to his side and taking hold of one of his arms before he can topple over.

“Bad one this time,” he murmurs, voice absolutely shredded. When he speaks, it sends a fresh bead of blood leaking from his torn lips.

She starts to tow him away from the doors, feeling an immense soreness — countless aches and so much exhaustion — wash over her through the bond. “This way. Come on. We should — we should get you cleaned up.” 

For once, Malfoy doesn’t resist. 

He’s shaking in her grip, steps unsteady as she slowly works him across the room towards the shower. 

“What…happened to the aconite?” he rasps in fragments, bloodshot eyes sweeping tiredly over the room.

“This is the Room of Requirement.” She drags open the shower door with her free hand. “And right now, it’s not required.” Trying to prop him up against one of the shower walls proves fruitless. He sinks to the floor the moment she lets go, sitting in a crumpled heap by the drain. 

He’s not going to be able to do this on his own.

“Malfoy—”

“It’s so _bright.”_

The room is barely lit. She stands there and stares down at him for a moment, weighing her options. He doesn’t seem fully conscious. Can’t be. Malfoy in his right mind would never let her see him like this. Not with all his pride.

But then she remembers all the ways he’s seen her. The way he saw her yesterday.

Perhaps they’re beyond keeping up appearances.

She puffs out a breath — “Okay,” — then stretches up onto her toes to adjust the angle of the shower head. When she turns it on, Malfoy doesn’t even seem to notice the warm water hitting the tile around his bare feet. They’re cut up and bloody — she can feel the sting of it herself. He must’ve lost his shoes.

“Malfoy?” she tries again. “I’m — I’m going to help you, alright?”

“Mm.” He’s slumped, forehead pressed to his knee.

“Okay.” 

With another steadying breath, she crouches down beside him, water soaking into the fabric of her leggings. So much for a fresh set of clothes. 

She’s perhaps overly cautious to begin with, cupping her hands to catch the water before leaning over him and letting it wet his hair. He barely reacts, shifting only slightly, face still pressed to his leg.

“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” she says as she plucks twigs and leaves free of tangles, sifting her fingers through the strands to loosen all the dried mud. 

It takes a good fifteen minutes to rinse it all out. 

“Malfoy, are you awake?”

“Mm.”

She pours a generous amount of shampoo into her palm. “Can you tilt your head back for me?” 

He hesitates for a moment, and she wonders if he’s realizing what’s really going on. But then his forehead detaches from his knee, head thunking back against the tile wall a little too roughly.

“Careful,” she winces, reaching out before she can look him in the eye and lose her nerve. She massages the shampoo into his scalp as gently as she can, waiting until the lather is thick enough to rinse. 

“Look at you,” Malfoy murmurs when she leans back to get more water. There’s a strange, sleepy sarcasm in his voice, and he looks surprisingly vulnerable with soap running down the sides of his face. “Giving a dog a bath.”

She huffs, meeting his eyes for just a moment before telling him to shut them. “I don’t want it to sting.”

He does as she says. Miraculously follows all her instructions as she finishes with his hair and moves on to his blood-streaked face and torn up hands. There’s nothing to be done about the stains in his shirt, but at the very least all the soap is leeching into the fabric. 

By the time the water spilling into the drain runs clear, she’s as soaked through as he is, and he seems to be coming to his senses. Bit by bit.

She towels off his hair the way one does a child's. Casts a drying charm on his clothes. And all the while the strangest part about any of it is how _not_ strange it feels.

Natural.

Even in his state, Malfoy seems to notice.

“Why are you okay with this?”

“What?” she grunts, taking on a great deal of his weight as she helps him to his feet. It’s an odd way to phrase the question. 

He just asks another one. “Why doesn’t it bother you?”

“Why doesn’t what bother me?”

He leans against her as she leads him towards the bed, her own wet clothes still dripping all over the floor. “Helping me. Being kind to me.”

She huffs, trying not to think too hard about it. “Even _you_ don’t deserve to be antagonized right now, Malfoy.”

“Very Gryffindor of you,” he muses sleepily, tilting as she starts to lean him down over the mattress. “No. Actually, that’s not Gryffindor. That’s almost—” He falls hard to the bed with a muffled grunt, _“Hufflepuff_ of you.” 

He falls asleep less than ten seconds later, and she does what she can for him without once asking herself why.

* * *

  
Her classes are forgotten. Eight o’clock comes and goes and she stays with him, applying salve to each cut and bruise as she discovers them. The illusion of night in the room helps her pretend.

Pretend she’s not doing this for Malfoy. Pretend she’s not also somehow doing this for herself.

She pretends the night is endless and the morning brings no consequences.

“Granger?” his quiet rasp has her spinning on her heel to face the bed. It’s the first time he’s woken up, purple-ringed eyes blinking sleepily at the ceiling.

“How are you feeling?”

He squints hard suddenly, hands dragging up from his sides to shield his eyes. “It’s so bright.” A muffled groan. _“Too_ bright.”

She glances around at the dimly flickering candles. Perhaps his senses are heightened.

 _“Nox,”_ she casts, and the flame of every candle dies instantly, leaving only the moon’s faint glow from above. 

It’s darker than she expected. She can barely see the outline of him.

“Better?”

His shadow shifts around, more grunts and groans to accompany it. _“Fucking hell._ Feel like a giant used me for target practice.”

“I know.”

Her fingers ache just trying to apply the salve, carrying his pain and then some. She’s been on her feet for hours.

More grunting and shifting. Her eyes slowly adjust to the dark, and she can faintly make out the sudden look of incredulity on his face. “Did you… _wash_ me?”

She fights an instinctive blush. “I had to. You were covered in dirt and blood.” 

“What did you see?”

She scoffs hard at that. “I never took your clothes off, Malfoy. Give me a little credit.” Turning back to the apothecary table, she struggles to tell the ingredients apart, leaning close to each bottle and squinting.

Malfoy waits a long time before he speaks again, and this time all the sarcasm is gone.

“The blood was mine, right?”

A sinking feeling in her chest.

“It was mine, wasn’t it?” There’s just the faintest undercurrent in his voice. True fear.

She straightens, staring ahead at the wall. “I — I think so. It seemed like it.”

At this, he sighs, and when she turns back his eyes are closed again. 

“Malfoy, I can’t work in the dark like this.”

“Then stop working,” he says. “I’m not on my deathbed here. I’ll be fine.”

Her stomach clenches and she falters, taking a small step back. “Are you…asking me to leave?”

He never answers that. Then again, she supposes he doesn’t have to. After a moment’s hesitation, she sees the vague shadow of his arm smack at the empty space on the bed beside him.

That clenching shrinks away to nothing, leaving surprise in its wake.

“Why?” she asks in a breathy voice. A stupid question, but the only one she can think of.

Malfoy doesn’t appear to be overthinking it the way she is. “Sharing is caring, Granger. I’ve told you that before.”  
  
It would be smart to say no. To consider him healed enough at this point to be left alone and to take her leave. To make simple excuses to professors for her absence and live the rest of the day like normal.

But the soles of her feet are throbbing, and she already knows how comfortable the bed is. Regardless of whether or not he’s in it. 

She swallows back her inhibitions and sets the healing salve aside, gingerly slipping into the sheets beside him. It’s difficult to repress the memory of the last time they laid like this, back home.

But this is different, isn’t it?

This is shared exhaustion and nothing more. She gathers a deep breath and lays her head back, trying in vain to keep her thoughts from racing. 

The darkness sinks in low and heavy, and for a good ten minutes she’s able to hold back from saying anything. 

But it’s inevitable. She can’t help it.

“We — we need to talk, don’t you think?”

From the sound of it, Malfoy’s rolled over onto his side, voice partially muffled by the pillow. “About what?”

“About everything,” she says, like it’s obvious. It should be obvious. “About what’s happening to us. We can’t keep stumbling around in the dark like this.”

A teasing lilt makes its way into his voice. “Are you being literal, or is that a metaphor?”

“Malfoy, you know what I’m talking about.”

He sighs heavily. “Go ahead, then, if you’re so talkative. Talk.”

“I — ” He makes it so difficult. Somehow always has her forgetting what she’s trying to say. “Well, the wolf. I think we need to talk about it. Have you — how much have you studied about bisects?”

Malfoy laughs, and it’s not exactly bitter. Almost as though he finds it truly funny. “That thing is not a bisect, Granger.”   
  
“What?”

He shifts almost angrily where he lays and the sheets tug underneath her. “I know what a bisect is, and that is _not_ a bisect.”

“But…” She’s tempted to sit up. “I thought—”

Malfoy cuts in sharply. “Bisects are supposed to be a part of your own consciousness, aren’t they? A piece of you that you’re trying to repress? That _thing_ is not a piece of me. It’s not _me_ at all.”

“Malfoy…” She turns on her side to face him, finding his back to her. “Have you considered that — that maybe this is exactly why it’s gotten so bad? _Because_ you think of it that way?”

“It’s not me.” A dismissal.

“He said he was.” She thinks back to the wolf’s words in the corridor that night and tries not to think any further. “He said you shared a soul.” 

Malfoy doesn’t respond, leaving her watching the steady rise and fall of his shoulder with each breath.

“I just — I think maybe… maybe if you weren’t trying to fight so hard against him, he wouldn’t be trying so hard to take control.”

“Of course you’d say that.” There’s more anger packed into than single sentence than any of the others he’s spoken to her. Sharp. Biting.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

His voice is bitter as vinegar. “You want him. And he wants you. Everything would be so much easier if I wasn’t in the way.” 

Her brows furrow hard, mind scrambling to figure out just how exactly she’s made him so furious so quickly. 

Malfoy keeps at it. “If I stopped fighting, he could be with you all the time. Could do whatever he wants with you. Could kiss you. _Fuck_ you—”

She springs up onto her elbows, glaring at the hard angle of his side in the dark. “What is the _matter_ with you?”

He shifts again, outline of his shoulder adjusting. A rough shrug, possibly. 

“What, you think I’d let it go that far?” she demands. “That I just want to throw myself at this entity I know nothing about?”

“Aren’t you on a first name basis?” he snaps, and she can almost picture the twisted expression on his face. “Have a sweet little nickname for him, don’t you? _Stranger.”_

_“Malfoy—"_

“Is that the name you’d call out when he fucks you? Stranger. _Stranger.”_

She lurches fully upright, twisting to face him. “Stop it! _Stop._ You’re talking about things you don’t understand. Saying things you don’t even _mean.”_ Her voice echoes back at her, loud and harsh — and when she takes a breath, she’s forced to consider that this is hardly a fair time to argue with him. “I…I know you’re hurt — I know the night’s been awful to you.” The words spill out, increasingly rushed and instinctive. “But you have no right to take it out on me. Not when I’m trying to help you, and not when you know the only person I’d let—”

It’s like skidding to a halt inches from a fatal drop. She just barely manages to rein herself in, not even quite sure what she might’ve intended to say. Certainly nothing good. 

“What?” Malfoy whispers, more a breath than anything.

She’s quick to lie back down, twisting to face the opposite wall and gathering the sheets in close. “Nothing. Just —” She swallows thickly. “Just don’t take it out on me. I don’t think you understand.”

“What don’t I understand?”

“I was going to thank you — eventually.” It’s a sharp turn down a safer street, but it _is_ true, at the very least. “I guess I should’ve done it sooner.”

“Thank me for what?”

“For — holding me off, I suppose. Restraining me. I clearly wasn’t in my right mind, and I can’t imagine how much I would’ve hated myself if I’d been allowed to go any further. Thank you for that.”

If she were telling the whole truth, she’d tell him she never expected such kindness from him. Compassion like that. But it’s not what he needs to hear in this moment.

“I know now — how you must feel,” she says instead. “When you black out. When he takes over. I don’t want that for you, and I don’t want it for me.” She tries to make her own feelings as transparent as possible, just for a second, if only to ensure he knows she’s not lying. “So thank you. For having enough self control for the both of us.”

A thick silence elapses, and there’s nothing between them but the uneven rhythms of their breathing. Then, at long last, a huff from him.

“Self control?” The sheets tug again as he moves. “If we’re being honest here, Granger, mine is practically spent.”

She feels a strange sensation leeching towards her from him. A nervous anticipation — the way one feels before they jump from a cliff into water.

“What do you mean?”

The next breath he lets out is like a shudder. Disjointed. “I barely made it through that hour.”

She goes very still.

“I think the only thing that saved me was knowing how long it was supposed to last. There was an end in sight. I just had to make it there.”

Hurt blossoms in her chest, unexpected. Is she really so unbearable? She throws herself at him, and the only thing keeping him sane is the promise of an end to it? Her hand curls over her stomach, warding off a sudden stabbing pain. 

But what he says next doesn’t align. Doesn’t twist the knife. 

It sends a wholly different sensation coursing through her veins.

“You were so wet, I could smell it.” The words are spoken through gritted teeth. A groan. Something he doesn’t want to admit, but has to. “I could feel it on my thigh, soaking through.”

Color races to her cheeks, and she finds she’s never been so grateful for darkness. 

“I knew it wasn’t real. I knew you were high out of your mind.” 

She can feel pressure in her fingers — he must’ve gathered his into a fist.

“But the way you put your mouth on me and the way you fucking _smelled_ , I—” He hisses out a breath, forcing himself to say it. “I’ve never wanted to taste something so badly in my life.” 

Sparks explode low in her stomach, and in the same moment her mouth starts to water. It’s not her — she’s not thirsty. It’s _him_. Through the bond, she can feel him imagining it. Can feel him craving it like he’s starving — a sensation so strong, it’s almost impossible to believe it’s real.

“Malfoy…” she blurts out, practically a gasp.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, still facing away. His tone is difficult to read. “Not what you wanted to hear, I’m sure. But it’s the truth.” 

She opens her mouth and finds no words to use.

In her silence, he continues. “We’ve said filthy things to each other before, haven't we? And yeah — we’ve messed around a bit. But I know what reality is. I know what can happen and what can never, _never_ fucking happen. I know the difference.”

“Malfoy—”

“I can feel you doubting yourself, though. Thinking stupid things about what I want and what I don’t want, and you should just know that you have no fucking _idea_ how much I want certain things.” He sounds so determined. So sure of himself for once that he’s almost infuriated by it.

Her pulse is thrown — staggered and struggling to right itself. She breathes out the first words she can think of.

“What can never happen?"

“What?”

She swallows, blinking slowly at the wall and trying to comprehend. Trying to assess when and how exactly they ended up here. “You said there are things that can never happen.”

Malfoy’s next breath sounds like a hiss. “Do you get some kind of sick pleasure from making me say these things out loud?”

“No.” The hand on her stomach moves to her chest, trying to calm her pounding heart, and she shakes her head even when she knows he can’t see it. “I just want to know what you mean.”

He scoffs. Rough. Furious. Like every word that follows should be inherently known to her. “I mean that I can’t let go of my self control. I can’t drop my guard. No matter how much I feel like I need to, I can’t have you. I _can’t._ I can’t kiss you without thinking I’m going to black out and lose myself. I can’t let go. Can’t — can’t know what it’s like to fuck you. And I know — I fucking _know_ I’m not supposed to want to know what that’s like, but I do. I want to know what you feel like on the inside. I want to know what you look like when you come. I want to hear you. And sweet _fucking_ Merlin, I want to taste you. I want it more than anything. And the joke’s on me, because I don’t even know when I really started to want any of it.”

All sane thoughts vanish, dying one by one with each word he speaks. Replaced instead by a throb, low in her stomach. Demanding and painful. Her toes curl, knees rubbing together. She feels like she's under a spell.

“But none of that is safe,” Malfoy mutters furiously. “None of that can fucking happen. And please trust me when I say I’ve accepted it. I know it can’t happen.”  
Instinct is honesty.

Isn’t that what the wolf said?

And her instinct well and truly betrays her in this moment.

“According to who?”

Malfoy’s nerves seem to jolt at the words, and she can actively feel him trying to a quell a sense of hope he doesn’t believe he should be having. “According to reality. To self-preservation.” There’s a forced casualness to his tone. “We both know how dangerous it would be to give in to any of it.”

She’s leapt off the cliff now. Isn’t quite sure when she jumped, but knows for certain she’s in free fall. There’s absolutely nothing to do but fall further. “Any of it?” 

“Yeah,” he says, confused and uncertain. Wondering why she’d ever question it. “Any of it.”

“Even…just a taste?” 

There are no second thoughts about it. With his words in her head and his presence just inches away, it feels more right than anything she’s done in the last year of her life. 

Her hand slides from her chest down to her stomach, hesitating only a moment before dipping beneath her waistband and finding the heat between her legs. 

Malfoy goes absolutely rigid behind her, body jerking against the mattress. He speaks through a cut gasp. “What — what are you doing?”

“There’s always — _ah — ”_ She’s more sensitive than she expected, ripples of warmth spreading out across her nerve-endings with the slightest of her fingers. “There’s always a way to — to bend certain rules.”

 _“Granger.”_ His voice is tight now. A warning. The sheets rustle as he turns around, facing her back. “What are you _doing?”_ But she feels every second of it as the blood flows through him, tightening and hardening. 

She’s somehow both in control and completely lost, every instinct urging her to turn and face him — he’s _right there_ — but every ounce of her conviction keeping her rooted to the spot. 

“I think you have more self control than you realize,” she whispers in a shaky voice, trying to maintain some modicum of restraint as she allows a finger to dip inside — just for a moment — before retreating. 

“Granger—”

She turns then, finally, screwing up her courage to look him in the eye. His gaze is searing — torn between staring wide-eyed at her and shifting down between her legs. 

“One taste can’t hurt,” she says in a quiet, steady voice, and with him watching every move, she slides her hand carefully free of the waistband. Her finger glistens in the faint moonlight, air cold against it as she raises her hand between them. 

Malfoy releases a shuddering gasp of a breath, a surge of that thirst coursing across the tether between them. 

It takes every ounce of courage to say it, and when she does she keeps her eyes on his. 

“Open your mouth.”

His lungs cave in around his next breath, pupils dilating. For a fraction of a second, she thinks it’s the wolf, clawing his way through. 

But she can see that grey beneath the black. Knows exactly who she’s looking at, somehow without a doubt.

He opens his mouth without question. And that painful, all-encompassing throb grips at both of them as she slides her finger across the warmth of his tongue.

It takes seconds.

Seconds after he closes his mouth around it, eyes falling shut — a groan vibrating deep in his throat.

Seconds, and a blinding light explodes between them. 


End file.
